some eulogy

My appetite's destroyed.
My lust for life, decayed.
My body soon can meet my soul,
in spiritual parade
- long time coming, stranger.
At last we meet, at least.
At least let's have some pomp
and circumstance. At least,
let's follow where she leads.
I knew that girl, beforelives, man,
She's got a swell baton.
I'd follow her past hell and gone.
We never met down here. We don't believe
in soulmates, now, so much less Valkyries.
And so we die in battle, unselected, on our knees.
Every time.
It's clear there's something wrong:
it's everything they ever gave us to believe.
The game: is rigged, by being not a game,
unruled, unrefereed. At least let's have
some pomp and circumstance,
some eulogy.

A chance to stand,
break down, and tell who's left:
you were this life. This world,
for me.

run

You remember this,
from a thousand dreams
- but it's always real.
So suddenly you're back, this scene:
comes horribly true, just like
you always tried to make it seem,
and play, and feel. This time,

it's live.

Like every time, you try
to find your way, and through. Same
conflict, motivation, arc - each stage
unfolds unmercifully apace. The only part
that fits is you, because you're trapped in it.
You can't get out. You're killing every house
you ever had. The curtain calls go on for nights,
and no one knows if this year's smash hit show
was ever written to be
this sad.

Least of all, the crowd.
Not a dry eye in the place.
The critics are all amateurs.
They're doing it for love because
they hate to let on: they have no taste.

As this year's smash hit show goes on
its record-breaking run, we know:
ten years ago, it was the same
verbatim, line for line, for fun.
It played as uplift, triumph, feel-good
inspiration piece.

And then, a comedy.
And finally now, we weep.
Its truest sense is wrung,
and cut, so dry your eyes,

my love,

you are released.

"The birds greet the morning"

The birds greet the morning
like a bunch of mo-rons
as if at first light, they're already
a crowd of drunks, and
too far gone to modulate
their tone, or even yell a thing
that's interesting, or new, no, just
loud, not listening, talking over each other
their favorite strains: well-practiced
and worn, again and again they rasp
and squawk and trill and call,
and caw, because each only knows
one thing. And they want you to know,
and everyone else. And they're not listening,
but if they were, it would only be for the sound
of some other too far gone one-song asshole
giving them their favorite thing back.
Even with the windows closed, crack!
At the crack of dawn, cacophony and me
inside, wishing I could chime in reasonably,
and quiet the whole milieu, which I can do
with drunks. Drunks also only hear
the sound of their own call,
for the most part, but you can imitate that
and break in, and sing them down. Birds,
though, don't. And being strictly wild, too,
they never learned to use
their inside voice.

Indignation

We let the world go on like this.

We are the ones who let it go
on like this, it is and was
to have been our responsibility. Oh,
I know, we've clocked out for the day, though
haven't we? Done our time, paid our debt
to society, forty fifty sixty hours - isn't
that enough to ask, we've paid our debt! Yours,
mine, ours, plus the freeloading bastard we can't
look in the eye. Bastard winning the game, it's unfair
- doesn't even play. As a species, I know
we've clocked out
as a way of life,
basically. Declared fairness
government's job, I pay my taxes
don't they? Let them
look after it! So
they have.

The responsibility
was ours, but we hired it done, so
You get what you pay and pay and pay
and pay for, don't you know? It's ours,
and was, and was to have been ours
to stop authority

from taking all control.

But through no fault,
blame, or duty of our own, Some few
came along and got the job done
for us. They always do. And let's concede, they bear
a more than passive blame. They deserve, in fact,
credit I suppose, of a kind:

They have worked themselves
assiduously, into the plan,
and actively taken away
the design.

Taken systems designed to harness
ordinary, blameless greed into channels that serve
the common weal and need, taken systems designed
to create landscapes that are rigged so that
justice is the lazier path, the easier outcome to achieve,
landscapes where injustice has to work for its gains,
and work again and take pains to get away with them - oh,
there are always those few,
in every age, but - that's precisely why
they are not our excuse. They are
always present. In every age. We can't deny we knew
about these assholes. There are always a few,
and let lesson be learned, please: it only
takes a few, when you hand the whole thing
over to them, tell them it's their job, and
not to bother you.

Those few have taken all the systems we could monkey up
together in common trust to make common good common,
commonplace, easy, or at least - more commonplace, easier.
All the systems we gimmicked to put a fix in, build fairness
into the course of things as the path of least resistance
- those fucking few, who are always with us in every age
have finally hit the jackpot in ours, and really -
in a few hundred years, and purely on merit,
they have completely clipped and rigged
every system to benefit the great many
no longer, and the petty few
always, instead.

What is justice, but the very human effort
to take an unfair world and rig it in ways
that make fairer results more commonplace
than could naturally occur?

There will be an accounting, but don't worry
if you are bad at math, and law, and government,
and whatever else the job requires, don't worry
- it will be someone else's job after all. Won't it?
Isn't it? We pay our taxes, don't we? The Greater Good
is none of our concern, and so

it never is. The Greater Good never
is ours, but there will be an accounting,
don't you worry. It will not involve any
of the numbers
you know.

Indignity

The flies land on eyes
too dry to close,
and logos run filthy all over
the clothes, where there are any. Limbs,
bellies, minds ache, naked

and wither with hope - nothing can take it

but death, at least, comes often
and ceremoniously. Everything explained
by a pantheon - alive where nothing else
could possibly survive, God
looks down, and looks on,
and lives on.

God's in Its heaven and the kids
are alright. Peace on earth,
to everyone willing
to give up

the fight.

the change

Love is the change, the strangeness, the charm,
the damage another has done to your view.
The cracks in your world that were always there, that now
you can not only see, but walk through - and love
is what's on the other side, too.
And love is on your side
all over, as well.
That's what they've done to you.
If you've done it to them,
then it's heaven.
If not, it is hell.

"masterplan (revised)"

You make me want to plan together with you
some spectacular crime that will shock the world
and everyone will say we're so devious
and so deviant and so dangerous, that
the only possible way to deal with it
would be to build a special prison
with just you and me in it.

"master plan" (Later Revised) (Original Version)

You make me want to plan and execute
Some spectacular crime together with you
that will craze, amaze and shock the world
and make the toes of newscasters curl
and the pundits will say: we're so devious
and dangerous, and deviant
that the only way how to deal with it
is construct a new kind of prison,
fit to the crime and designed to isolate:
and with only you and me in it.

"We could flourish"

We could flourish with feathers,
but the toasted blooms of summer
marigolds, you will continue to confuse
and call daffodils, which, injured, indignant,
radiant, will turn from you. In the wind,
all we are made equal. The heat
shall be stripped from our skins
and limbs, and we could wish
for differences to come in, set us
apart, get our coats like gentlemen
courting ladies
in ancient copper-plate etchings,
like badges of distinction, like bugs,
pinned to cork and long since bored
to death at educating the ten-year old sadist
whose eye was caught, whose hands gently,
lovingly, carefully, caught and who
has long since grown full of himself
and left, while you stand here
out of the sun, chilled to the skin
and wishing for wings - not to fly,
but to fold you in.

"Your Grim Stevedores"

well all these people in my heart
who I fell in love with, but never out
they linger never paying rent, and keeping up
the management, they're bad for business
there's no doubt - put them out
put them out right now

there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
are dragging in your steamer trunks
and I am trying my best to help

and I will help you settle in
and I have turned down every room
nothing but the personal touch
I'm most hands-on solicitous
for such a precious guest as you

there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
are dragging in your steamer trunks
and they don't seem to want my help

you'll settle into cleanest sheets
your pillow mint, melting in your pillow mouth
down my office, I turn in
and flip the vacant light to out

and out my window, cross the courtyard
I see the flicker in your room
and you'll be blasting your tv
but there'll be no complaint, you see
all the help is gone but me
and all the guests are gone but you

there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
are dragging in your steamer trunks
and they might kick me out as well 

and there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
have all gone back to their long shores
and they have left you in my charge
and you have put me in your spell

there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
all your grim stevedores
have all gone back to their long shores

and I will keep you very well.

"current events"

Buddy, I don't want to hear bad news from you,
unless one: I can come to you rescue, or two:
ain't a thing anyone can do, in which case
I will come and sit by you and take any and all
of your current events. The truth hurts,
but at least it's true. Bad news makes no sense,
but at least we're informed. I will sit by you,
we can shake our heads, in wonder at this world
which is wonderful to me: since you were born.

staring dark

You made your bed, now lie awake and see how long
the daydreams take to summon up the sun, a stark
and staring contest with the dark. And now,
the bells! You win. Hit snooze, and hope
that some night, soon, you lose

step zero

sick of the whining,
sometimes? I am,
but at least no one
hears it and it keeps one
amused, with nothing better
to do and really, it's good
exercise working out the same
complaints, complaint really, over
and over. Like twelve steps,
except I never get past
one. You


Whenever I think
I have nothing left,
I think of you

assignment

So
I'm finally feeling fine about the closure
round my neck,
and I can breathe
a little freer, now I no longer expect -
and I can see
wide open futures, where before
it was just one.
I could just paint in anything,
except for what I want
because that's done.
I know - it wasn't we
who ruined us again.
Just me.

If only I had seen what I could easily
have fixed,
so easy now it would have been
to keep your mind on this.

The fault's in the receiver - your telepathy was plain.

It's amazing what we'll do to keep the one we love
from blame.

"The Post"

Thanks for the post you stand,
unawares or otherwise.
Somewhere at the reaches, there is a wall
upon which all my defense relies,
and there you are - always
on hand, and with arms
shouldered, vigilant for signs
of the enemy, of woe or dismay,
which may (or may not) be the same thing
but anyway, you level your sights
and cry out "Hey! Buddy, anything I can do?"
You are a friend. And I know I can count on you
for anything, even if certainly one
tends to wonder, well,
what is that, what might that be?
What can anyone do,
after all, in a life like this?
Just stand one's post and stick to one's gun,
I guess. It's the price of having once begun
in so militaristic an analogy

not with a bang

At the very end
stage of the universe...just
after that, long after
all has been said,
and in the moment after all
is done, in the breathless
interval that extends
and shall extend
permanently after
the last thing ever
to happen has happened...somewhere
out there,
in all of the vast
expanse of distance
through which the thinning, dimmed
vestiges of matter and energy
have finally worked themselves out,
and out, and through the final throes
of thermodynamic entropy, I hope

somebody comes along

and hangs up a sign
a sign that says,
"out of order."

The casual reader

Call it what you want,
but that's what you're doing.
Call it what you want as you pull
back the covers, open it up,
start teasing, flipping each
of the leaves with spit-moistened finger,
rolling it all the way back, baring
each new page, deeper and deeper
in, running your eyes
over every jot and tittle
and next thing you know you're
diving into it, cleaving into,
unto, lost in the story, you crack
that book's SPINE but still
not satisfied! Voraciously
devouring every page
after page after PAGE, until GASP
Ahh - crisis, resolution, denouement,

And you leave
that book behind,
crumpled, probably, creased,
and dog-eared I shouldn't be surprised, stained
too I bet, you slob! - as you walk away,
don't lie

and say you didn't know how
it would end.

Pathetic

Pathetic
has never been bad in my eyes.
The heart just goes out,
without asking one's leave.
I will take all your pity,
and still I will rise, and have mercy
on you - but no charity! Please,

Let us save that for those unashamed
of their needs,

and who don't care
who sees.

sideways rain today

sideways rain, today
the weather is always
here in my heart, it
is today, again. And again,
and over everyone I ever knew,
it slows to a stop
for you. And you,
alone like me,
stretch your neck,
to see
out the window
what kind of day

will it be

Love yourself

Love yourself because.

Love yourself despite.

Love yourself besides.

Love yourself to.

Love yourself over.

Love yourself around.

Love yourself through.

Be Alone With You

I want to take your hair up into my hands and breathe through it.
I want to look into that look in your eyes so long that I
can see what you see through it. I want to
make that tied-for-first move, I can see
you're right there too with me,
and you.
And her and him
and all these other dudes...

I wanna be alone with you
I wanna be alone with you

I want to take your hand, pull you right out of this place.
And nobody's gonna notice or worry or wonder why!
I want to take this moment in hand--it's more urgent
by far than what was planned, and we could always come
back later, to say goodbye,
but

I wanna be alone with you
I wanna be alone with you
I wanna be alone with you

I want to take your hair up into my hands, breathe through it.
I want to feel the shape of things to come! And maybe
push them along, I want to chase this thing we think
we just found, all over each other until we pin it down,
and it would be kinda weird.
To do all of that?
With all of these people around,

I wanna be alone with you.

promises, promises

I will love you forever
when we get there
together, if you still
care for me
like you always will,
like you say today
that you always

will.
Your decision
is made, and I love you
still. You will love
me always, you have said

today.
I will love
you today, and unless
and until we come through
to a day called forever.

You'll say:
"I have loved you always,"
so settled and smug,
and I'll love you
still.

increase in obscurity Pt.2

Wait a second, of course there's another
popular use of obscurity: The making of
references, obscure ones, hoping someone
will recognize and enjoy the reference.
A sort of peek-a-boo game between
people of similar learnings, or leanings,
or experiences, that adds significances and cachets
to the trivia we've accumulated along the way, and which
would be otherwise meaningless. A valid, playful use

of obscurity, sort of. I'm not saying the other use
is invalid - the deliberate obfuscation. I'm sure if
that's what you're after - it all comes down
to what you're trying to accomplish
as an artist. For some people, meaning itself
is a game, and the work may be deliberately,
semantically empty - or as empty
as the artist can make it. Suppose an artist
delights in seeing the various meanings drawn
and connections made from the work, none of which
were intended while making the work? Surprise! Is this
in some way bad or foul play? Heck no.

It's just one of those weird deals

where when you find out that it's their game, too.
The reader gets to play, and you're ultimately like,
"Huh? WHY? Well okay. I guess if that's what turns
your motor over." But then

you tend to look at the next piece they do
as some type of more or less bull shit. So
they may be wise not to let on, that they write
with "open meaning" (i.e. none) (or next to it) but
to me it's as full-on legit as any other purpose
to which you could put to art,

i.e. none

increase in obscurity

I agree: an increase in obscurity
is not value added. I mean, I guess
some people like to be obscure, but
it's not because obscurity's valued
or valuable, it's because they wish
to be mistaken for profound.

To those people I say: ask not for whom, but why
the bells bells bells bells bells bells bells?

THE CLANKING AND THE BONGING OF THE BELLS!!!

Hm. I could have done better, there. But instead,
To those people I say:

why look for winter where the flower blooms? No wait,

how about to those people I say:

all clouds are white, to the sun.

AWESOME! That's what I'll say

next time I run into one of those people.

My belly just wants to be happy.

My heart wants love. Also,
to pump blood. My to-put-it
-delicately wants
to make you pregnant. Except
if you're a guy. It doesn't
know why,

it just does. My brain

wants to think interesting
things. This is easy, given
where it sets the bar. My right
hand wants to pick. My left hand
wants to fret, and my lips
want to kiss.

Again,
except
if you're a guy. Not sure why
my lips even care, on that score.

Weird. My fingers
want what my hands want,
and also to drum. Also,
to feel surfaces,
and their textures. And
to do things, and
to undo them.

My nose,
sinuses, bronchi and lungs
just want to BREATHE IT IN
And the nose,
to smell, as well.
Depending.

My mouth wants
to pronounce, but not
upon you, necessarily. Also,
(it's true)
to eat delicious food.

My throat wants to guzzle
beer, chug ICE COLD WATER, well,
technically not quite that cold.

My ears want to rock, and my eyes want
nothing better
than to gaze lovingly into

THEMSELVES.

And yours?

"Like Alcohol"

I love you so damn much
that it's eating me inside
and I wake up thinking of your love, it's growing
it's growing on my mind, and it's getting so
I can't function at all
I don't want to, without you
I love you
I love you like alcohol
alcohol
alcohol, oh
I love you like alcohol
alcohol, I love you
alcohol, oh
I love you like

you get into me and seep through my veins
and I can't build up a tolerance, I need you
I need you, again and I need you just
to feel like me at all, I can't feel like
myself now, without you
I love you like alcohol
alcohol
alcohol, oh
I love you like alcohol
alcohol, I love you
alcohol, oh
I love you like

my judgment is impaired, now
I can't think straight at all
you're on my breath, the world can tell
you stagger me
I almost fell

you color everything I see is looking fine, now
just one pull from your sweet lips, relief now
is coming down the line and I need you so
you drive my pain away
I feel bright, now
and beautiful
I wish you'd stay

I love you like alcohol
I love you like alcohol
alcohol
alcohol, oh
I love you like alcohol
alcohol, I love you
alcohol, oh
I love you like

alcohol

gilt

The glow
that suffuses your face
is enough,
the lines and the shapes
of your form catch all rays,
and this light
gilds your graces,
no burnish, no paint,
no embellish,
you see.
You outshine artful ways.

nothings lost

in a cloudful of stars,
I was trying to recapture
that flirtatious vibe
we had going before
we just DRIFTED APART
The MAGIC is GONE
from the silvery moon
my stomach is full
of dead butterflies

the number one

so sick

of whatever this life has left.
and I haven't even seen the best of it yet, but
whatever is left can't touch what we had.
It's an act of good will to see things

so bad.
I am bound
and determined.
Whatever's to come
could never unseat you,
my number one. For as numb
as I am, I can painfully
see, you are greater than anything

meant for me.

"where you been"

I'll tell you when I can, where I've been,
I will tell - when I can without
crying, or lying, without
feeling like these

are words we could both do without

you hearing, me having to cast
in such definite terms
all that stupid confusion
and doubt. I will tell you
when it helps,
and you'll trust me to know
when it can,
or it must,
or it does
come out.

homework advice

Side note: to anyone who thinks
it's better not for one's life's heart's work
to be assigned, for anyone who thinks
it's better not to set targets, but
rather one should just let flow
whenever you feel like it; to anyone who worries
the quality of art might suffer
because you "forced it,"

proof's in the pudding my friends.
#1 a work done wrong once
can be done right again, once
it's done once at all. And you can take that
gem from the bank, in the rough
- now that it's been found, mined, now
that it exists, it has weight in the hand
- later on, you can return to it again; it
can be polished, refined, recast and re-set -
and perhaps a new and fantastic work
will be the result you get. And yet,
you never would have had the first
raw chance to make a thing of it, if
you hadn't gotten off your ass
and made yourself
make a thing.

You can't argue
with results like those, for
what you do today in no way constrains,
prevents, or uses up

what you can do tomorrow.

Only what you fail to do today constrains.
Prevents, uses up what you will no longer later
be capable of. So,

Not advice, perhaps.

It's a god-damn harangue. Class,

Please open your books
to page one.

shitty, timid art

or for shitty, timid art,
some big intimidating thing -
Well to be perfectly honest,
I don't view poems as anything
consequential myself! I say most art

should be the tossed-off
spawn of an impulsive moment.
But it's cool and important also
to be able to get caught
up in the moment, and suddenly
want to put a ton of work

into something!

I don't think
that can happen, though

- I don't think it's possible TO get caught
up, if one's approach
to art, in general

is that a given work ought to be consequential.

If a person thinks art ought to be,
in practice I think that tends to make
for either no art,
or
for shitty, timid art.

St. Valentine's Day

There's never been another I'd love like I've loved you for so long
I know I've never made myself clear enough on this.
I was a coward
but nothing could matter to me more than your happiness
and though I've lost myself before, now
I'm ready to accept the risk

if you have ever believed enough that you'd die for it
you'd know that isn't a thing you would want to come out and admit
- like St. Valentine
like St. Valentine's Day
- like St. Valentine
Like Saint Valentine's Day

so what they tell you 'bout love is: you must love yourself about all things
that hasn't made any sense, since I first saw you
I held back
afraid, I guess
I guess I paid the price.
But now I'm ready to meet with lions
I'm ready to be sacrificed

Whatever sacrifice I have to pay to declare my love
I know what I know is right and I'm willing to take what comes
- like St. Valentine
like St. Valentine's Day
- like St. Valentine
Like Saint Valentine's Day

- my heart is read, papered 'round in lace, it's an offering
to you
- I've never been such a tragic type,
until you pierced it right straight through
like St. Sebastian, yeah so you can call out the guards
and the firing squads,
give me the chair.
'Cause if there's even a heaven I know that you'll have to be there -

like St. Valentine.

Here's Looking

As Royalties and Kings come
in slumming, in gangs

while the sages
and the doctors have concocted
surprise,

though I stand upon a gallows,
my head Will Not Hang.
Nor Will I

ever, willingly,
be the one

to break contract
that has long been read, said
and done, bled
'til it dries, and signed
in my contact

with you,

bright eyes.

Ignorance isn't

Innocence
knows full well,
I suspect you
knew that, girl
boy! Or will,
shall you? I suspect!
as much as you did. Innocence
knows this: it is innocence
that's bliss. You can live,
of the mind, ignorant
and kiss, flirt
parley with death
'til you part.
Sad. Cruel,
cried
all the way home, boo hoo hoo
hoo hoo hoo, from the deep, dark
heart, of the stormy night
it was, and then
hark!
Be denied.
For in ignorance,
you lose.
Every chance at
bliss you might have had
by not seeing whose
was the benefit. Yours?
Oh no,

you know better. It's fine.
Ignorance has got about the spirit
of the letter, but has lost
(or never had) quite the presence
of mind.
Innocence knows better.
It's struck less than half-blind, and of more
than half a mind to know
best.

And you know,
I think you already knew.
For there isn't any test
to make sure what's true.
You've been innocent of all,
free at last! Yes, declared,
dropped, charges and all:
as you try to see past,
I can see right through,
I guess: you dare,
oh, your little act
of love, does it show?
do you care, that your little
who hoo cuckoo cheek-coup routine
of play, your white flag,
your white dove, oh
- so, innocence
is bliss? Did I hear you
say? Well,
Yes.
Yes, it is.

And you know what else?

Ignorance
isn't.

Not even close, you know. But when you're so
far off the mark, you don't even know
what you hit. Let alone what's
missing.

There isn't any shame, in it
though. Only prison

Innocence knows blest.
Knows best. Knows
bliss, and as to the rest, well
- it isn't what
it thinks
it is

Roses Are

See, perfect example. The above has all the earmarks (or hallmarks?) of a "modern poem."

* mostly prose
* novelty line breaks
* subtle if any rhyme

This gives your verse
an incredible amount of loose,
groovy freedom - but

WARNING! It does NOT

make poetry writing EASIER! If anything,
the lack
of a safety net, the lack
of an even force of gravity to pull you down, keep you

able to tell up
versus down, even - the lack

of all that
restraint and equipment,
basically - frees you up to FAIL!

, if you're not careful

Most modern poetry is a perfect example.

Mine, just
right up above
us, there - ? Well,
admittedly, less so. Far
short of a perfect example of
that sort

of thing.

That's the risk you take. Free verse is for REALS, yo.

I just wanted to point that out, because

sometimes people

are like

"This museum piece looks like my special needs kindergartener's imaginary BLIND FRIND took a SHIT on a NAPKIN and slapped it up on the refridgerator like the proverbial asshole sittin' in Pie Corner with plumbs on his thumbs." That's pretty much a cliché,

in the red
-blooded just-us
-folks world

of art critique

, in these days, ever since
hey! they finally gave up
on the sort-of progress that had been
captivating snoots for a while, by then.

You

look at some free-form MASTERPIECE
, and go "SHIT!
I could do that without even WANTING to
."

But it's just as important to note
-
the same thing applies in poetry
! It's
just poetry

never had a chance
to get bastardized by the Modernist
Hijack so bad, because poetry

wasn't in competition with photography
in quite the same way.
(That painting was.) Fine

Arts Painting basically felt itself

threatened,
grew desperate,
freaked out like a SPAZZ
into a corner and
DIED there, trying
to find even one
decent
plump

remnant

wedged into a beveled aluminum crease of a by-then-
long-since way
-too-picked
-over PIE PLATE. And let me tell you!

There is nothing inspirational about the wafting aroma
of the curdles and scrapes and streaks of remains
of purple-pulped pie juice that looks and smells
like it has been sitting out

, in a room-temperature room
, since the beginnings of the ends of days. Bacteria,
mold - you name it.

And yeast
- trying trying to eat
what's left of the sugar, but
there's not even enough moisture for poor little mister
yeast to shit out a proper alcohol molecule
as a by-product! Art,

basically,

became spoiled

and so I just wanted to make sure you're aware of the pitfalls
- the same thing hasn't QUITE

happened to poetry yet, so!

be careful, but have fun.
Just
make
sure you're not the one,

to fuck up poetry for EVERY ONE TO
COME

GENERATIONS

AFTER

OKAY??

There's no

Nobel Prize

for that.

"pass a note"

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, I'm
so

sick a me
hit in on
you
take the shot
Take! the Shot!!
no! you don't even seem to
move. You don't seem to feel no,
impact no pain no
gain
no distortion
catch spark - no flame,
I'm so sick of my poor battered
battering ram
of the skull
to the wall
papered all in vain, not - say,
what am I,
sane?

I'm so sick a me
hit in on
you
Make a fist!
of my heart! POUND
POUND 'til I've bruised it blue, and for you
- not a scratch, not a dent
not a crack! not
a vent, this volcano's blowing over
all the smoke's been spent, but yet

oh, here it goes again. No,

here it comes again. No,
here it comes again and will you even notice
when?

There appears to be some rule
of the universe, here. We are Force Equals
mass times whatever, it's clear
where the object irresistible
hits immovable force - "hey man, do you like,
like me?" Who me? Well,

Sure!

Of course.

What are you trying to SAY?

Speak more plain, please.

(drum solo)

I'm so sick of me hittin on you!
Like a fist
to the heart pound, thump
skip, beaten and through, I'm so sick of me
hitting on you, this is not, really my kinda style of
strict kung fu, and I'm sick of me
hitting on you.
Knock it off!
Cut it out,
man. Even Bruce Lee can't outbox
a rock statue of Muhammad Ali.

Two particularly quite sexy men, by the way, but don't kid
yourself Ali's statue
isn't even going to notice that dead Chinese guy
all...

flailin' at him.

He's just that stoic. Take
a lesson from a poet, or - if you must!
remain in school, and maybe pass a note! Man up,
Grow up, and
pass a fucking note up the row,
or something

Huh?

Cause man? That's childish man. Childish

"Cross your fingers"

If the refrigerator light
stays on in the dark, and if
just through the door,
there's a national park, and if
deep in the center, there's a sacred grove -

if a tree falls by chance on a crock of gold,

Will a rainbow break out, arc and hold in the sky
as a kind of alarm?
Will there be an outcry
to shock us from our beds?

So we rush to the door
- throw it open, grab hold
of the bottle we know
is the coldest and best
for emergencies, now
- and pour.

We have found

that in trouble and doubt,
we have had to learn how.
And at least, we have tried.
Who can sleep anymore?
Since the luck has run out.
Since we looked out, and saw
we've let every tree
fall.

Did the first make a sound?

But how could it?
It had already died, after all
after all,

after all.

"It was not meant to be
after all,"

she lied; closed the book

by its cover,
her eyes on the world, her heart
on the end of the story,

and sighed.

"Close The Door"

if you close the door I will cease to exist,
you won't track me down from the clues I left
all scattered around, you know
they point nowhere now

if you close the door I'll remove my head
and reveal myself as the alien dead,
go back to my planet and report
that love is unsound

but I'd rather be human with you

and you know you make me feel like
I was one

and I want to be new and improved,
and you said you want it too
and then you said you wanted to
run

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?

Shall I compare thee best to a sausage?
Thou art sweeter, yet no less savory for it -
and of buns, you require none but thine own.
Of heat and steam, thine is the more wholesome entirely!
You freshen the air splendidly, and all who breathe in it
are wakened to a hunger not merely bodily in nature,
but of soul and of mind, transcending to realms ethereal
and empyrean. In form thou art more delightfully various;
in face, certainly had any sausage a face, we would scream
to see it! Yet upon thee, nothing could sit lovelier
than the dulcet light
within thine eyes,
shining in and upon the song
and the dance
of expression that passeth
in every glance
of the play
of thy face.
Shall a sausage fit
to compare with this
ever be ground, or stuffed,
or hung? Methinks,
fuck no. No fucking way in hell pal
Not too fucking likely.