Down in New Orleans

 I saw women who

 wore almost nothing

 & oh how they must of

 looked to those who

 had paid attention.

 

 Too drunk to notice  the hang of flesh

 of strangers and too lonely

 to bare the thought of sex

 in place such as this thousands

 a miles away from love.

 

 So we sat in the bar

 and ordered three beers

 and two shots of absythne

 

 as chasers and drank even

 though we already were

 drunk while the house

 bop band played hot 

 into the night and 

 at closing time we got

 up and left leaving

 the sound of it in there

 walked back to the hotel

 erasing the loneliness

 of New Orleans Night 

that only the knowers know.

  

Kerouac and Ginsberg

are dead/Bukowski and 

 Burroughs are dead.

 

  No-one knows what

  it's like to be a ghost

  except for the music

  that we left alone

  in the dark with the woman

  who wore nothing who weren't 

  noticed for a second under

  the neon sky of Bourbon Street.

  

 Even I will go back home

 and be loved to forgot

 the ghosts and the music

 of Sad Eternal New Orlean's

 Night.

 

Kerouac and Ginsberg

 are dead/ Bukowski

 and Burroughs are Dead.

 

Even they the knowers

of all things holy

and unholy don't 

know what it's like

to be a ghost.

 

I was too drunk to care

leave it all behind

with the music because

poetry's dead.

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