Poetry by

Doug Draime

Mausoleum Dream

I watched through the mausoleum

window, as a long table

was placed in the middle of the tomb

by 5 well-known poets.

They took stacks of chapbooks from boxes

and stacked them up on it The tomb was strewn

with whiskey bottles and beer cans.

The death chamber was filthy. Something

nasty and sticky stuck to

the concrete floor, with hundreds of small press

magazines messed-up in the goo.

On each cover was a picture of their

idol guzzling a can of beer.

They huddled over the reading matter

on the table like whooping cranes, their necks

nearly parallel with the table.

I heard the name of their idol several times,

as a box of chapbooks was picked-up,

then tossed out on one of the stacks like

fish in a fish market. A lot of angry mumbling,

debating. One of the 5 would pickup a chapbook

and mention the poet’s name who wrote it. The first one

held up and discussed was a 30 year woman

from England, who wrote only graphic poetry

about her sex life and drinking and drug habits.

Someone said that if there was a crown

passed down by their idol, she should be the one it was

passed on to. A Royal Poet! The second poet held up for debate

was a Montana man, who’d moved to L.A.

to walk the streets his idol had walked. And he

started drinking heavily and dating a East Hollywood

whore and druggie named Sugar Pie. Then he had pictures of himself

embracing and humping his idol’s gravestone at Forrest Lawn

and proudly posted them over the internet.

They began chanting the nick name of their idol, “Spanky,

Spanky, Spanky”. Black hoods and candles were being lit,

and fresh cans of beer for the poet/judges. And all their

faces started to take on a zombie stare, spittle dripping from their mouths.

One held up the chapbook of a poet, who had just recently

stuck a 45 in his mouth and canceled

his own ticket, because of his drinking and

miserable life. Did it in his mother’s house with her gun

The chanting grew intense and 2 of the zombie-poets acted out a

fight-in-the-alley-outside-a-bar scene,

from one of their idol’s stories.

Another one of them, watching the fight spotted me at the window and

they all turned to give me the zombie stare, long fangs appearing.

I turned and run into the midnight gloom of

the graveyard, the zombie-poets chasing me still chanting his name,

“Spanky, Spanky, Spanky.” The dream ended, me running

out of there, looking over my shoulder

into their zombie stares. After I woke up this morning,

i checked the internet and at the public library

for any information on the meaning of mausoleum dreams

and found nothing. I’ll go back and look under zombie-poets ... with long fangs.

Suicide Of An Ambitious Poet

When name dropping

didn’t work,

he tried

ass kissing,

but as skilled

as he was.

at that one,

it too, didn’t bring

him the fame

he sought,

the praise and

worship

he craved

So, he took

that old

Mark Twain quote

to heart.

When the newspapers

had

mistakenly

reported

Twain’s demise,

Twain quipped,

“The reports of my death have been

greatly exaggerated.”

That gave the poet the idea.

He, together with

his wife and

a couple

drinking buddies,

sent out e-mails

that he had

shot himself dead

in the head

and was

being buried

in Mexico.

But still

unfortunately,

nothing changed:

trite and mediocre

he

remains,. as

inconsequential

as Twain’s

cigar

ashes.

Entertainment

( 1920 to present )

The guy who sat

2 seats

behind you

in the 10th

grade

who

could

fart louder

than anyone

in school,

the same guy who

came up

to you at

a high school

dance

and

brushed

his

fingers under

your nose

and

said:

“smell”

after

being

in the back

seat

with your ex-

girl friend.

This

guy

has

become

a

STAR:

writing

his

autobiography,

which is

being made

into a

movie

with him

starring.

He’s

giving

interviews

about the

profundity

of his

popularity,

and

on

a special

tv show

he came

flying

down from

the ceiling

on pulleys

and when

he landed

he farted

and huge

puffs

of smoke

and flames

shot

all

over

the stage.

There was

a French

guy

who

toured

all the

finest

theaters of

Europe

in the

1920’s,

who

could

blow out

candles

and

make

his

ass

talk

and sing

Parisian

lullabies

and

I bet

he

got

rich

and

got

a lot

of

pussy

too.

Keeping Up With The Lifshins

I have to make haste to

Keep up with the Lifshins

This poem is my humble

Attempt in that regard

I’m in kind of a rush

Lifshins are so many places at once

There must be

Thousands

How do they do it

What is the secret of their

Amazing quantities

I know you don’t

Know

That was, uh, a rhetorical

Question

Sorry I gotta go

Get this to Post Office

Before it closes

Fuck! all the Lifshins probably have

That new

Post Office software in their computers!

So, shit, just forget you

Read this poem

Doug Draime's latest book is "Spiders And Madmen" (Scintillating Publications, 2006). He began
publishing in the 'underground' and small press in the late 1960's, while living in Los Angeles, becoming
part of the notorious L.A. poetry scene of the latter 20th Century. His work (poetry, short stories and plays)
continues to appear in magazines, newspapers, and online journals worldwide. Currently living in the
southern foothills of the Siskiyou mountain range in Oregon.