Hey, Mr. Thompson

In your life, Mr. Thompson, you were
larger than,
And in your death, Mr. Thompson, you are even greater.
Surviving a tsunami of mescaline drenched bats,
Tell me, Mr. Thompson, was there really fear and loathing in Las Vegas?
I’m in love with perfect amateur photographs bound in the luxurious psychedelia of a Gonzo cover.
I wonder if it had been my time, would I have been one of your lucky ladies?
Blanketed in a heavy cover of sweet smoke,
I shut my eyes and happily dream of a time that was not my own…
But could I make it? Could I really “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”…?
Fuck, yea!
Hey, Mr. Thompson, do you think you could put a bullet through my copy of Hell’s Angels sometime when we meet out there in the ether?

©Y.E.S 2014

Today’s NaPoWriMo prompt was to write a New York School poem using a provided recipe.

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