hoping fore a little give and take, feedback
from the loop; inside a black hole, nothing
to scoop; save a little here and there, i
connect the fucking dots - so frustrating,
living on borrowed time; but the deeper
this gets the deeper this goes, look, if
you must, at Vincent Van Gogh, sleeper
cell in a backroom, calls the fucking shots
going to school the lot of them, they will
pay attention - it’s hard to look away
laying it all out there—Appalachian like
a bird—beauty goes to the male, but hey,
I’ll be heard; plain spoken mama, shot to
the heart; i know that she loves me, that’s
what makes this so fucking depressing, You
never get what you want—just what
you need;
Loco about the ears, don’t touch my cauliflower ear, ugly as shit; who wants to read the book of revelations: I’m going to be the president;
I’ll take them by the balls, fucking Kemosabe, off the reservation, on the bottle to boot—no telling what I’ll do with my telepathic brain;
spent centuries learning how to tap into the bulk—the white man comes and takes it all away; but think of it, little boll weevil, somebody had to pay
payback is a bitch—I’m fucking loving it; don’t drive me out of my mind. Daddy was poor, thought he lost his mind; i run my mouth, don’t I? I can’t exactly help it
trying to keep all this a secret when I puke in the cockpit; shine a light on me when you’re good and ready: I normalize butt-fucking, take it to the extreme;
especially profane, on this day of all days
switching personas right and left, but always
landing at the end; this is crazy hell fire,
my life, a woman, holding my dick for ransom
fine by me—there are more important things
to do; like tamp down the language, if you
want to screw:
come on Kemosabe, make me a man; i’m not saying you’re gay—people will understand. some gays are their worst enemy, looking to defame what they deign, as if, Kemosabe, there was something wrong with us
my woman is like hell-fire, nasty fake-ish
smile; hoping she won’t smell like a barrel
of fish - screwing half the town, trying to
be what I was; can’t go back there, that is hell
living with a woman that has her body
to sell; change up the rhythm, don’t know
how i’m going to pay for this pizzeria -
take your comeuppance, let the wind blow
I live on my inheritance; don’t punish what i’ve done: we have love for the sinner, but never the sin; what the fuck are you talking about; i can hear you over the din: playback is a nightmare—having turned up the sound, clipping in the butt—feeling a little pain;
save it for later—when I’m projecting my brain. that’s how this shit works; you garner the experience, and then you paint over it; talking to my angel, angel for today, stay with me forever, saving that, if you do,
Well I used to be more gay than I am -
trying to block it out; forced it’s way to
the surface—but now its voice is heard.
turns down the volume, it was all a little
too much; forced to suck my own shit, damn
the Viet Cong. what’s this all about, no kids
allowed in the room; spare them from the
realization that their elders are too old
losing my rhyme—and my congregation,
profanity a testament to eternal
damnation; i don’t apologize to You, man
dressed in black—this isn’t a funeral, can
you get yourself on track?
lovely low-down woman, i’ve got the low-down blues, woke up this morning: I take medication for this; something ain’t working—going to a no good country
hack it, motherfucker, this is destiny; you’ve got a chance to do something truly great, and, indeed, I believe i will, I believe anyhow, that I already have
come on gay president; don’t make this about shame: don’t think you should accommodate the gross one: living for financial gain
I’m going to get my woman, going to grab her by the brain, force her to be happy, loving Charlemagne. but she’s off limits—at least this particular brew, milk in my coffee,
i don’t think it’s more important than You
i cringe a little, anticipating His fire,
i love what I’ve done with my desire
I’m ancient as the Indian giver; go on, rub it in; nowadays a spot of indigenous DNA is something to be proud of—at least that’s how this plays out; can’t help it if I see none of it,
saving that I do; got to stick with my family before drinking a dram; TV show happy ending, built to make me weep, getting close to the truth, fucking embarrassing
hot to trot—hot potato in the ditch
never think, my woman, that you are my
bitch; confound the rascal carpetbagger—
shaving the hair off this head; then we
can see . . . the organ we dread—trying to
prove our masculinity, what if I can’t do
it—are you fucking kidding me? No, loco
I’m telling you it’s precarious, close
to the edge; i take all this darkness—it
doesn’t fucking belong to me: take it back
asshole—run your own
goddamn country—gone off the rails; this involves all of us—there comes a calm before the storm. All hell is going to break loose, this is not normal, my friend, Kemosabe Indian, got nothing physical to say
living nonetheless, our souls touching a little bit; feels so good to me; lesbo in a tree; don’t think she’s all there—but she likes to impress me with her fanfare
and I say, young blood, take me out there,
i want to see the world, dying on a spit,
pig liver in the morning, lime juice in his
pit; come on, believe you me, will you sit
down and say the blessing? what, lo, do
we have to be thankful for? hair gel
pandemic running through congress, think
they like to look slick—but i can’t put my
hand on it—subservient, then, to His cuddly
dick; look, loco-mama, I’m a deserted spoon
chasing the dragon like a Chinese buffet,
don’ t know what’s going to happen at the
moment of truth, put my dick inside you, see
how it feels; going to run this country—
going to see the whales, O white, one,
master of my demise; take me to your
leader—I’ll prove the fucking after life;