now read it the rite way back down back up to acknowledge what we choose but without is only of endlessness within there's still the chat chat chatter ing yet happy jaws that do no snapping down on the water - - - - or up in the sky or today is nothing compared the evening between us upon by our own hands \ / can you tell the difference? tonight we are the carrion torn apart and feasted know that a fuck up but they'll never up is actually scavenging this close now knob head read it the right way
"This is where I always go..." he spoke to his fever, and habitually motioned to throw off that old dust sheet...
"There be cataracts here go back months..."
He stoppeed short.
A small mouse darted across the floor...
The old chair by the window with the L in the spine had been uncovered, straightened, paused upon and thought about.
"My fever is too damn high", he said out loud. " Nobody comes here no more!"
And at that he passed out, rolled onto the floor and dreamed of opening an old time poetry saloon. A place where folks could be free, say poems about what they wanted to say them about, even about the bad times, the old times and the end of times. He'd open it one day, and the ink would be limitless. If only his fever would pass...
its been a while
some kind of
where have we all gone ?
tick fuck tick fuck tick fuck
time, that old bastard, creeps up and jollys you
can't be a surprise
with his ancient hard on
shuffle about and kick rocks
into a dead smile
'look son, this is where the artists used to go'
now, they don't.
spread far and wide
(not really) but
taking each day
as it cums in your shoes and you squelch it around
trying not to cause a fuss or feel embarrassed
about the complete absurdity