This poem was found written on a paper bag by Richard
Brautigan in a laundromat in San Francisco. The author is unknown.
By accident, you put
Your money in my
Machine (#4)
By accident, I put
My money in another
Machine (#6)
On purpose, I put
Your clothes in the
Empty machine full
Of water and no
Clothes
It was lonely.
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Seems a tad unfair that this constitutes half of the Brautigan collection here: seeing as he did not even write it.
BOO, FOREVER
Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I’m haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.
Now thats a Brautigan poem.
A LYRICAL WANT, AN ENDOCRINE GLAND FANCY
A lyrical want, an endocrine gland fancy,
a telescope that I thought had no thorns
have lead me to a pain that I cannot pronounce.
It gathers around me like a convention of translators
for a language that does not exist with all those meetings
to attend.
And that’s another one.