Untitled 3

I came
down
from
heaven
and I
tickled
your
funny
button.
you screamed
I laughed
now how funny is that?

Evening

I’m sitting on four legs in the evening and I can’t stand it so I throw it out the window. I’m too old for this shit. There’s no private shame and there’s no private disgrace. I head outside. I find it on the sidewalk still together in one piece. A Greek design made of oak, nicely varnished, still doesn’t look too worn. Upright now, two legs, I can pick it up and bust it against the wall proper. It isn’t long before the police arrive and they ask me what I think I’m doing. I tell them how much I hate my father, that son-of-a-bitch, and how bad he used to beat me. I hate my father too, one says, and he shows me his scars. The other one doesn’t speak, he just pulls out his gun and shoots the chair. Now it has three legs.

"Good" Poetry

Dream tonight of peacock tails,
Diamond fields and spouter whales.
Ills are many, blessings few,
But dreams tonight will shelter you.

Let the vampire's creaking wing
Hide the stars while banshees sing;
Let the ghouls gorge all night long;
Dreams will keep you safe and strong.

Skeletons with poison teeth,
Risen from the world beneath,
Ogre, troll, and loup-garou,
Bloody wraith who looks like you,

Shadow on the window shade,
Harpies in a midnight raid,
Goblins seeking tender prey,
Dreams will chase them all away.

Dreams are like a magic cloak
Woven by the fairy folk,
Covering from top to toe,
Keeping you from winds and woe.

And should the Angel come this night
To fetch your soul away from light,
Cross yourself, and face the wall:
Dreams will help you not at all.


Someone please confirm or deny this poem's authorship to Thomas Pynchon.
I really need to know.