This dream I have, begins and ends in a building.
Just me and five other men who are all now dead.
All inspirations to me but stuck doing the same job as I do.
There is Ginsberg,
Stroking his cock and balls
Explaining the benefits of enrolling.
There is Poe,
All dark and Goth
Refusing to call people because his crying will stop, nevermore.
There is Kerouac,
The ringleader even here
Smoking his joints, writing from memory and not fucking caring.
There is Thompson,
Chronicling every detail somewhat drunk-mostly tripping.
There is Bukowski,
looking like shit-drunk and lonely-
fucking some broad at his desk, groaning not talking.
Then there is me
Trying to work
But utterly failing with this cacophony so damn deafening.
This Dream I have, I think it’s telling me something.
These 5 men are sending me subliminal frequencies.
But that’s a secret that I wont let out here.