Miami Beach is where neon goes to die.
by Ivan Donn Carswell
The critic gushed and said, “Just like Jack,
so raw, I never thought to see another writer just
like Kerouac!” Kerouac, who the fuck is he? A writer?
Christ, that’s a laugh, compare me to a writer!
Let’s face it I’m no hack, I’m not so much to look at either,
but maybe Jack took crumbs like me. So she likes
the verse; well maybe not, I can see her eyes
are focussed far too short for that. She’s hot, fiftyish,
a horsey bitch (that means she’s trifling fat) with glasses
and an acre for an arse – now that’s a place to ponder,
you’d get lost and wander for a week. I’ve got the time
but let me guess she’s short on gratitude. She’d screw
me right tonight because she can, and if I sold a poem
that she liked she’d let me stay the night, perhaps the week.
And just like Jack I’m free and easy, but Jack is dead,
and I’m his living legacy.
© I.D. Carswell
Let me say I’m not like Jack at all. Sure, I might have been as a young man, perhaps I was, who cares! Kerouac inspired me then and I’ve always admired his style. Of course he wouldn’t have written a verse like this despite sharing the sentiments.