Gambier, Oh!

Notice if you will, the neat and slobbering hill,
–the past perfect, the empyreal born eccentric
as pure as an electric casket
and cast down on corn
with a heteroplastic plan;
or the bon mot offshoot
of some October quality
when they sent ships from Spain
over primrose reputation,
piloting through the immoral masses,
the imps meshed in fins of ignorance;
the fin-de-siecle half-pence garbers
of other shores,
loose with the glue of their prisons,
generalissimos of crap,
rhyming garbage, laylingo and yawn,
are not even,
of course,
to be censored;
yes, the kris and the krone are outdated,
great navies sink within the bellies
of history,
and on these shelves
you will find shelves
you will find
the genesis and the genius
you are looking for,
clapboard and gentile quality
to be rammed down the perfect necks
of the student princes from
Iowa, Terre Haute,
West Germany, Mexico City.
Regardless of the nature of our
present-day poetry–
you couldn’t pour a better
glass of milk.

Charles Bukowski
This poem appeared in the following books: