MEIN FUCKING KAMPF
Over by the big living room window,
looking out into the garden, my wife,
in an out-loud conversation with herself
which I am obviously expected to overhear,
is enumerating what her soul requires
in order to be at peace with itself and
right away I catch myself thinking about
how glad I am that I don’t have a soul and
that even if I did it would have no choice
but to be at peace with itself and since the
Knausgaard book I’m trying to read is so
dreadfully boring and tedious and totally
devoid of any significance literary or otherwise
my mind is already wandering ever further
afar and I’m wondering to myself (not aloud)
what old Hugh Hefner is up to right now if he’s
getting his nut or just lounging around in his
pajamas and bathrobe and jaunty captain’s hat
or maybe doing both at the same time or if
perhaps his fading virility might be the
perfect symbol for the waning powers
of my own dwindling intellect and the
losing battle between sanity and insanity?
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MARK TERRILL is a native Californian and ex-merchant seaman stranded in Germany since 1984. Holding no degrees or diplomas whatsoever, he has authored over 20 collections of poetry, prose and translations. Some “career” highlights include getting drunk with Gregory Corso, getting stoned with Paul Bowles & Mohammed Mrabet, and being anthologized by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. A complete bibliography is available on Wikipedia.
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Read more by Mark Terrill:
Two poems in Molly Bloom
Two poems in Section 8
A prose poem in Rattle