Strange Delight

Kierkegaard was crazy
And I saw him drinking all alone.
As the moon played a trombone

It was pure madness (it still is)
But, like our Messiah says,
It’s there because it ought to be.

There goes Frank Sinatra
Did he ever think of suicide?
Did the bombers scare him?

I saw soldiers in the light
Packing their asses off
To fight the other sordid light

And I saw poets
And I saw prophets
And I saw buggers

And I saw all sorts of people
bracing up for all sorts of torment
And I cowered.


But Hank Chinaski told me:
“take everything out from your mailboxes
and everything out from between your ears
and drown them in the great ocean of alcohol.”

Following his advice
I dragged myself to the bar
with fake cobwebs

where the moon played a trombone
and of which I had heard before.

There I saw Kierkegaard, who was mad,
and who paid scant attention
to the plump waitress with massive boobs, because he mistook her for a puppet.

Suddenly, I was happy
I started to laugh
I still am laughing

It’s a strange delight and I have never had delight like this before.