Breakfast at the Bunnery, 9/90

Ah, one of the first posts on this blog–a poem of which I’m nostalgically fond, which no one read when originally posted, becomes the first in what will be a bunch of reposts from the days before I had followers, readers, or even lost souls stumbling by unintended.

Old Road Apples

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Breakfast at the Bunnery, 9/90

A half dozen dirtbags
Crept from the red hills
Tie dyed and ragg-sweatered
Dusty Synthetic-fleeced
Muddied boots and sandals
And thick woolen socks;
Drowned rat-nested hurricane-haired,
Wood-smoked, marinated, saturated
Wormy, squirmy,
Smudged and smitten,
Hungry for stacks of pancakes,
Tanks of coffee, egg avalanches
Lakes of sweet, cool juice
And more more more of it all.
Oh, how eyes narrowed and
Darted, but they knew, they
Knew the boys were beautiful and
The girls—ah, the girls—more
Beautiful still.

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About JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.
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4 Responses to Breakfast at the Bunnery, 9/90

  1. Simona says:

    Dolce serata by Simona 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Steve Myers says:

    Wow! I can only assume I was among the crowd of esteemed dirtbags. Proud of it beyond words. Choked up a little when I read it . . .

    Liked by 1 person

  3. JunkChuck says:

    Can’t remember who was there- Red Hills in late September, so damned cold. But it’s really about any of so many days over those few years. I felt like we were princes, and I think maybe we were.

    Like

  4. Slim says:

    LOVE this!
    Thank goodness I never had drowned rat-nested hurricaned hair and never staggered into the bunnery after a wild night of local camping. Phew!

    Liked by 1 person

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