I feel his grit, shackled between my loins—blond woman from Alabama, so redraw the maps; like it’s going to make that much difference anyhow, but, go ahead. You do what you must: shape your country in your own image;
the last dying breath of the Confederacy; hold on to your hat hoochie-mama; chin deep in whores, if I think about it, so, well, I don’t, considering i’d be sauteed if I did.
Awful construction: the woman I brand; i know better, now, than to let it run its course: i’ll get out while i can, before the big guns step in, rob me of my masculinity, my pride, my dignity, too;
honestly don’t know how—what do you say? writing music to make it through the second half of the day . . . until we meet again, loser from hell, crack in his asshole, crack in his bell, give me liberty, then, and kiss my ass when you do
no sensory perception stranger than this
off with his head, roll around on the carpet
you’re the one, babe, that i really miss
but it's no favor to me to drag things out
your job is far more important, right now
at least, than anything, including me
and, of course, the pride i feel, ask me how
but if you, young woman, can control
your thoughts; kudos, too you, all i can do
is channel them in a specific direction,
but peace and quiet is hard to accrue
when, especially, you’re in want of correction
slip it in, nonny, it’s for your protection
not supposed to be doing this, but it fits
so tell me, is this what’s called Armageddon?
people all around me are calling it quits,
write out their invoices and their chits
no money, out there, to be had, fuck the
machine—think of how, for now, Satan sits
a dollop of mayonnaise in his ice cream
tomato soup—i’m going to puke, trying
to be what the grandparents want—how
else to usurp the shadow that we bring
when, crossing over, we shall take a bow
monster beneath me, fucking low brow, so yeah, if you ask me: a tiny head matters: guess their built for speed, quick and precise—not so far to travel, synapse to synapse, would that, dear friend, sum up his strategy?
the enemy within, dear friend, is the enemy without: angry young man—on about all things, saving what, i think, we were talking about. jazzy on the uptake, can’t afford to have kids—the economy is in the toilet; does it float? Or is it, friend, covered in jizz?
Gross—my friend, you are mistaken; wash up like a whore—don’t be mistaken; trying to rush things, i’m afraid—thinking my time period can catch up to me: together we’ll stomp out the republican party, voice of reason, voice be damned
the Confederacy, darling, is indicative. the country is going down the drain in more ways than one: hurt people hurt people—what can i say? white man needs faith more than prayer breakfasts and conspiring thoughts to share with his community
and on to the world, flack jacket for some, i’m so fucking angry at all the bad people that, as it turns out, populate this planet! my ideas, then, on what really exists . . . everybody needs to take a shit
phantom made real by nothing but this: my heart’s in a bind—he’s my nemesis. Constipated man, full of himself, when he goes, love, he’ll create a stir—and, if you let him, he’ll show what he made
fall to fighting hand to hand, my country is a fucking disgrace—you act like you don’t care: sheltered loved ones, running in place
hey, stable, now, Jimmy the lune, preaching
on TV about his cohorts and his goons
dally with a prostitute, there’s no bling
so fine; but what happens when they’re buffoons
dead set to infect what hates them to boot
no good loving, no good like that, ha
move over, honey, make your bottom scoot
accuse me of harassment, got in your head
trip wire, booby traps, well thought, well said
going to my doom a little at a time, self
destruction i warrant—no better off dead
once alive, my friend, there is no way to die
that’s the nature of hell, saving, so what?
are you really going to discuss your savior?
at a time like this? your mouth is your butt
let Him out slow, Jewish transvestite,
gather up the shenanigans, lets get it done!
Fuck our way through puberty, that’ heaven
for some: stuck, no less, by a Chinese gun,
pomp and circumstance; two timing men
your cruelty—your values, white on white
skin; but, alas, I speak too fast, you go it
one way, and i’ll let you cough up the blight
got under your toenails, inside his mitt
funky distraction, i’m stuck in her orbit
want to get out—she’s moving away—more
and more I realize, there’s hell, so to it,
chief among women, football and gore
sum up your life in a sentence or two
go down with this ship—no chance for a few
saw, from your shoulders, a land of giants
go to town, among them, preoccupied dram