Monday, October 26, 2009
I am eating in flannel and your high-beams spill
Bloody human flesh.
My voices are calling me toward different erections.
Instead of a cheeseburger, I skip the burger and
Have the gun.
No wonder women who drink so hard try to
Finger me out.
I want a white gun, and I want to lick
Hippie stickers from it.
Grandchildren ask to sneak up the blocked rocket.
Every morality in town dies in my psyche.
I serve them on a roll with lettuce, tomato, and spicy pimento mayo.
I've been called gay all my life because I'm a dancer.
But I know what I like and I like
Large numbers of dead in important places.
As life gets closer and closer, older joys cry
"Oh my God, that squirrel's not gonna make it!"
This is just pitiful.
The masturbator has zero possessions inside the walls
Of his malice.
And I squirt more of a real lunch than eating on the street.
In my psyche I live to sneak bloody human flesh.
No one's going to win a Nobel Prize in Economic Fairness
For this type of wet, shave, and relax.