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3 Poems by Hortensia Anderson |
The Rung Below Hell He loved nursing a grudge, a drink - the blue neon flashing morphinomaniacs - downstairs sellers upstairs addicts oh she kept pushing all his mood elevator buttons and then giving him the slip of the tongue - "I hate like hell -" he said but now that he was here, it was more than that - if idle hands make devil's work then at least they're no longer idle he thought happily of the last shot from a bourbon bottle, a smoking gun. My Cousin, Frances Farmer She didn't need Dachau or Auschwitz to feel horror, she had her own mind, maybe too much I don't know the details but that they felt she was better less the lobe - funny how she really became somebody only after she was reduced to no one at all. On The Dole He said my poem needed him: He was an Editor. And then he blew his brains out all over my new computer. When I came back the monitor with my poem was a bloody mess. I must admit I really couldn't improve on it.
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