it’s the same old argument: “you make a mess,
clean it up”. Yes pretty baby momma but you’re missing just
one key thing, i don’t give a fuck…..
she has a 5 o’clock shadow, but
it’s only three o’clock
my bed sheet is draped half way out off my bed,
I forgot my own luggage outside of town…
the junk drawer is a lesson,
in the execution of odd nouns.
The coffee machine abhors me,
from the insides of a paper cup,
the alarm clock it’s divorcing
me from where i’m from,
My beer, my wine, my vodka,
my Ewelina, and her Clementine,
i’m rolling out the porcelain,
like a prickly porcupine,
sticking to my guns,
Freshly squeezed mango,
a filtered cigarette too.
i’m leaning out the window,
reaching for clothesline avenue.
My whites are contagious,
my darks protest too much,
my socks just tow the line,
but my eye’s they’ve had enough.
it’s 1984 all over again,
and a 1950’s NY state of mind,
i’m Ginsberg in his 20s
i’m Edgar Allen Poe,
I’m brick buildings and courtyards,
I’m Frank Sinatra too,
i’m burnt toast and tangerine jam,
i’m a smoked leg of lamb, and
it’s July throughout the HOUR,
a light drizzle of rain
talks about black power…
but only so loud,
the sun screams through the clouds,
the moon still in the sky,
it’s not, babe, what we’re about…cuz
i’ve faintly seen your eyes,
thirsty for the will,
the will to write again and to swig
some swill with pill.
I’m thirsty for an interest,
hows about that 8th of shrooms?
we were writhing in the limelight,
but you already knew…
the cat she calls me lady,
by whatever type of sound,
my baby’s in my t-shirt,
and you know it gets around.
the bed seems warm still,
but i know the hot shower is the sound.
i’m brushing my teeth loudly now babe,
and i know you’re the one since
this time pretty momma,
I DONT FEEL LIKE A HHHHHHHHHOOOOUUUUUNNNNNDDDDD
It’s okay to be alone.
I look at your head and
I see that you’re alone.
I hear this old song that my mom
used to sing to me;
those feelings of, ”I shouldn’t’ve
done that”, or whatever,
What exactly are we doing here?
The lungs keep moving
back and forth and the heart
never takes a break.
That thing that tries to
hold on to things, to everything,
doesn’t even really relate to my
existence, now does it?
I feel the waters in my
belly. Too much. &
We can be alone.
Even in the pictures
where we’re already grown.
with my face is the oldest
trick in the book. Everyone
fundamentally feels the same
is the shame.
Nobody wants to read things on
how beliefs merge with behaviors & can
make you better. The only
thing we can do is not care and go.
The self is force fucked,
in the greatest of ways so
But bow down your head to see
the heads roll.
Read the tarot. Or practice the teachings
from the Tora.
Deep throat reality.
If it feels right enough. Go back to
feeling and not knowing or thinking.
Change up pitches after the high heat.
And re-up all the time on what’s great for you.
Make it so that you think you are
perfect. Be humbled. Live on.
Fit shapes of stones in your shoes.
Realize that the thing doing is the
that which is always in need, is
that which is always in need. &
fundamentally we are all unreal by
Let me double-think my illusion,
this confusion, this intrusion;
"Yeesh" is all i can think to gag
with and wake with for feeling’s
Everything’s cliched, in a great way,
chagrined, cashed, and caked.
Clamed up, clamped shut, and caused over.
Chambered boisterously and
not done at, like the
rules in my head.
It’s okay because it is the
position of a
subjective mind to
think itself to death:
If my father spent more
time fathering, instead of
describing what it takes to
lion, we’d all
be better off.
It’s simply the stance of this
breath. Of nothing.
Wake up to your let go.