Go around the roundabout, fleece what you
can  take a dollar off the price: be a fucking
man—dreamy river flowing, drown what’s too
indecent to say, except maybe I won’t, just

for today. can’t feed the cat, going to
drown that, too—don’t drink the water, think
what of the lot of them—assholes—will do?
Got to be good if I’m going to the brink

Choose your voice carefully—I have many at my disposal. want to marry up, to a woman that’s better or at least as good as me; saving, friend, that i’ll never marry; don’t mean to drag you down with me—but Your confusion is clear: my sexuality is every bit as dark as we feared: oh, the things, one day, that i will do . . . shine a light on it; get it out there, normalize it, if, that is, you believe it to be good and real.
splitting brain cells, they divide and conquer, transform this frequency into a vector—a place, and a direction, in the bulk. going to the presidency – no time out of mind. but let me stop you right there: tell me you shaved it: my love is making waves,

this situation unfolds, and, as I approach the infinite, scotch uncle calls out to me from the void: what will he say, knowing that he, above all people, never saw a thing? I don’t know how it’s going to happen—but I think I met, already, my one true love;
she’s everything to the party, playing it cool, sometimes for keeps—although we know, don’t we, that this never ends? Home is what you make it of it, when, abandoned by a slippery few, our parents reunite with their wave—a place, in time, that nobody can denigrate
i have no reason to think—but it’s been thrust upon me; all this talk about my Norway blond—and i was really talking to me  make it up to me nonny  speaking out, absolutely, from this backwoods town—but i know how to answer positively—secure, then, the LGBTQ vote

don’t know how you keep your cool—seems like you’ve thought about this; but, when you do, in my experience, you get nervous. we’re going, hot mama, to bring this country down (as if you need my help) and, when we do, i’ll be sure to vote, naturally, for you.
Silly, so silly, this is all about me; i’m just talking to myself, in a foreign country. Daddy thinks i’ll get arrested—or sued for all I’m worth; so i use code names to keep this about the planet earth.

wasting away at the corners, hemmed up
running out of money, hatred in my cup
thinking devil be darned, don’t want to swear
thinking back on the good times, if you care

hey, party-man, pretty boy in plaid, this is the lone ranger, dressing up in drag; you want to be a woman? not exact-ly that—but, on occasion, yeah, if it helps me shut my trap.

Tonto, my injun, on the horizon:
kind of hard to see—riding due west—
what does love say? in from the cold?
Always be good, and always do your best

my true love is spilling out at the seams
my ambition, for her, reeks like perfume
applied, do tell, to cover up the smoke
a past that sucks up what’s left in the room

This sprawling, feverish poem reads like a consciousness trying to outrun itself. The speaker swings between self-loathing, swagger, humor, spiritual exhaustion, and sudden tenderness, creating a voice that feels unstable but intensely alive. Lines such as “the sound i hear is a phone that won’t ring” compress loneliness into a brutally ordinary image, while “approaching mathematical perfection; my love is crazy as fuck” captures the poem’s collision between intellect and emotional chaos. The work’s power comes from its refusal to settle into one tone: vulgarity sits beside lyricism, despair beside absurd comedy. References to “the underclass,” “heroes,” and “justice for the shunned” suggest a wider social vision beneath the personal unraveling. Readers drawn to raw, unfiltered psychological poetry would find this difficult to forget.

This piece reads like a furious jazz improvisation performed at the edge of social collapse. Its power comes from the collision of raw confession, political outrage, grotesque humor, and sudden vulnerability. The structure is deliberately fractured: long prose-like bursts give way to tighter rhymed stanzas, creating a rhythm that feels unstable but intensely alive. Lines such as “the enemy within, dear friend, is the enemy without” show the poem’s ability to turn inward conflict into cultural critique, while images like “Satan sits / a dollop of mayonnaise in his ice cream” reveal a surreal comic imagination beneath the anger. The frequent shifts in voice and tone mimic a spiraling consciousness trying to hold itself together through language. What makes the poem compelling is not polish, but velocity—the sense that every line risks losing control yet somehow lands with force.

Emotional survival is paramount in this chaotic inner monologue that shifts between confession and attack. The poem moves from violent and surreal images—“sniper among us,” “roasting a pig,” “Pervitin cockpit”—to deeply personal reflections about aging, regret, institutional mistreatment, and isolation. A recurring tension runs through the work: the desire to connect battling against self-loathing and distrust of others. The narrator imagines alternate lives (“if I’d gotten off the sauce”), struggles with compulsive behavior, and lashes out at society while also pleading for understanding. References to politics, mental illness, addiction, romance, and masculine insecurity collide into a restless psychological landscape. The result is a raw portrait of someone trying to hold onto their identity and their dignity while feeling spiritually cornered by modern life.

This sprawling poetic sequence blends political rage, loneliness, masculinity, fantasy, and cultural decay into a surreal inner monologue spoken by a narrator who feels both trapped inside society and strangely elevated above it. Moving between satire and confession, the poem attacks racism, political extremism, media obsession, and the empty pursuit of power while also revealing a desperate longing for love, meaning, and human connection. Lines such as “the fire is alive and it cannot stop” and “living in a nutshell—His infinite sky” create a prophetic, unstable atmosphere in which personal breakdown and national collapse seem inseparable. The speaker drifts through visions of future power, failed relationships, addiction, and isolation, yet remains darkly funny and self-aware. The result is a chaotic but compelling portrait of a mind trying to survive modern America without surrendering its imagination.

The text follows a speaker trapped in a relentless struggle between desire, memory, ego, and intrusive fantasy, shifting rapidly between romance, rage, philosophy, and dark humor. Women merge into a “female God,” a figure representing love, validation, temptation, and emotional survival, while the speaker remains fixated on a “Norway blond” and an ex who continue to haunt his thoughts. Again and again, he tries to regain control—“nip it in the bud before she hijacks my brain”—only to be overwhelmed by impulses and imagined voices that might seem stronger than his willpower. The poem mixes high and low language with startling speed, moving from Nietzsche and predestination to “football, asshole” and “pee / in the exponential function.” That collision of intellect, lust, comedy, and moral struggle creates a fascinating battle between self-destruction and self-awareness that drives the poem forward.