Gregory Nunzio Corso
There once was a poet named Corso
who had a bad gland in his torso.
But, before cancer nailed him,
beat critics once hailed him
as, like, Kerouac, only more so.
There once was a poet named Corso
who had a bad gland in his torso.
But, before cancer nailed him,
beat critics once hailed him
as, like, Kerouac, only more so.
The 58th richest American now takes his rightful place in history as a sticky blob on the underside of capitalism's theatre seat. Ever try to get those things off after a couple days? No, you probably never even thought about it. You're one of those people that just takes that gooey sucker right out of your mouth, whenever you get tired of it, and slaps it under the nearest available piece of furniture. Hey, it's dark, why not? Never mind that some poor slob who's worried about the price of a rebuilt alternator is gonna spend a half-hour trying to chisel that melanoma-like mouthful of chemicals off without damaging the fucking wood. Ever wonder why we have carjackings, you filthy, stupid, rich pig bastard?! What's that? Another one of you thoughtless bloodsuckers blew a gasket? Well, right on, baby! Right on!!
(d) March 8th, 1999