The Hurt Is Hard To Handle Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Such off the, (plunk)wall
fell drunk into the hallway
of another reality, selling realty
as well; fealty to new kings and new lands
every man, well laid plans, palm trees, bourbon
and bitches with creamy tans, topless, showing titties...
hit me up with the coco jack, girls pretty, even if a little gritty
but hey, let us leave, the 2-1 in favor of committee, out of it. Damn
IAM gonna follow your list, stamp a foot, and put the pound
of a fist on each hot dot, a spot, were a human being's
interaction of satisfaction took place, some face to
face; while others, simply place to place... Phuuck
brother, the 80's are dead! And a sweet part of
me is caught up in their shadows past... the
girls with hairspray fine, lip gloss mine
wine coolers for the tom foozler's and
drolleries, where the main groovers
and shakers drank the Cutty Shark.
Warm on the belly. White Snake
about to crank. In the heat of
the night. Crawling across the
hood of my car top; it shiny white.
Do not even mind the heels, the way
they bled the red, oh sweet Jesus, out of
sight. Filled with virility, ambrosia, and an
unusually large amount of Eros and Ethos, minus
the Thanatos, unless it was meant to engross the
hot ass goth bitches, all eye liner and lip, insides
all tore up, like prom queen girls, who instead
shine; like a Christmas candles, yet either or
neither, because the hurt is hard to handle!