It all falls

Is greatness found in a bottle of Gin?
Or how about in an Opium den?
Is it the Wormwood then?

The electrical charge from these drugs has
created art as beautiful and grotesque as nature itself.
You see Poe- A strungout genius-high on opium-engraving
our own desires for just one kiss of amontillado
Van Gogh-with an absent ear- drinking absinthe-
pressing out images-bringing to life-
our cradled fears
And you see my grandfather at nine a.m.
drinking his martini and talking about labor relations
at Candlestick Park
slowly uncovering the truth to me
Showing me that being great
is really about falling apart.

The terrible truth

There goes this girl
She walks right past
With legs like totem poles
All carved up with muscle and lotion
Legs man
I would do anything to be those boots
Black leather that crawls up her eternity of skin

And I'm wondering...
Where the hell are the national geographic photographers
and why aren't the zoo keepers placing bids
Because this creature makes Helen of Troy look like
Athlete's foot.

And as I look across the street
I see a hundred guys with
dropped jaws and tilted necks

One man in his late seventies catches my eye
and we both start laughing
then we stop.
And then we start again

Because we know
that things will never change
And, of course, they never have.