Knock knock

19. KNOCK! KNOCK!

I think of Motion
sucking on his
fresh lemons,
trying to ignite
his dormant torment.

I think of Primo
tossing and turning
with frost still
on his feet,
remaining calm.

I think of Hughes
dusting his shoulders
in preparation for
an acceptance speech.

I think of Bukowski
tinkering with technology
while suffering with
cancer.

I think of Benjamin
opening a fat envelope
in receipt for
shaking a dread
or two.

I think of Umberto
in mediaeval mind
and cigarette ash,
struggling to find
the time.

I think of Burroughs
pondering the effects
of peyote,
10 minutes after
he pulled the trigger.

I think of Poe
rocking in the dark,
searching a troublesome
path for us.

I think of Pinter
playing his beloved
game, but only
hitting ducks.

I think of Ginsberg
pulling on the tail
of a real genius,
howling as he
is dragged along.

I think of Dylan
wandering the earth,
fighting against
the idiot wind.

I think of Satre
strolling along
rivers and canals,
following his breath
as it disappears.

I think of Orwell
skipping along
the pier,
jumping off
all the way to Paris.

I think of myself
screaming and wrapping
at their doors,
offering my
service.

A footstep is heard
but no-one answers.