The Bibliography Poetry Game - Part 1

I thought I would start a new series of poetry games. The idea is for the thread opener to have a popular writer's bibliography list. You pick a book title that speaks to you and write a poem with that title. (If anybody wants to start a different thread with a different author's bibliography... feel free. Just try to make sure the book titles lend themselves to poetry possibilities and leaping off points.)

This thread is for JACK KEROUAC titles. Here is a list to choose from. If a title jumps out at you, write a poem with the same title:

1. On the Road
2. The Dharma Bums
3. Book of Dreams
4. The Town and the City
5. Mexico City Blues
6. Lonesome Traveler
7. Pull My Daisy
8. Desolation Angels
9. Satori In Paris
10. Scattered Poems
11. Atop an Underwood
12. Orpheus Emerged
13. San Francisco Blues
14. Old Angel Midnight
15. The Scripture of the Golden Eternity
16. Doctor Sax


(I left a few out that didn't sound like they would inspire.)

Grab a title and jump on in!

If one has been used already... use it anyway if it speaks to you.

Old Angel Midnight

She dances sombre,
old angel midnight,
tired whore, lanky legs
twisting in her solitude.
She pecks a cheek
in the swoop of dive,
entices madness
and steamy midnight burn.
She feeds the need
to copulate, to scream
inside the broken dream,
old lady midnight,
stomps the green away,
pulls the newlings
into times more dark, eternal,
with her sombre beats divine.
Angel of suspension,
she'll stop the morning sun,
pull you under to the night,
the midnight's haunting glow.
You'll lose the day
in her seductive glare,
allow the loss
to soak your skin in satin sheen--
for that tiny midnight moment
she takes you coolly in,
sucks you to her midnight grind.

Pull My Daisy

Pluck my wing,
you lazy petal,
limply lulling
in the breeze.
Pull my daisy,
you angry lover,
lilting shadow
in my sheets.
Peel my skin,
you awkward dancer,
leaving liquids
in your wake.
Preen my body,
you sopping angel,
lick my wisdom
from my steam.

Book of Dreams

I'll open you slowly,
you book of dreams,
caress your darkening pages
with the dampness
of my skin mid-wake.
I'll slide these images--
quakes and shifting life unlived--
between your whispered sheets.
You, book of dreams,
with your haughty unread records,
I'll slither inside you,
awake to the world you keep
between those hallowed days.
I'll open you slowly
and creep right in,
become the dream that haunts the night.
and as the dampness
of my skin depletes,
I'll evoke Morpheus
from your torn and tattered sheets.

Satori In Paris

It had to do with the glint of light
from a window high,
the scent of phlox, dahlias,
asters from a nearby garden gate.
Inhaled, they cleared the fractured fog,
tantalized the mind inside.
Triomphe in early evening,
night shadows on ancient brick,
they brought a shed of truth,
a glimmer just, but scented dark.
It had to do with the glint
of the spiralling Paris night.