It’s a cold dream on grey days
where slippery slopes make slippery ways
to question what these things are for
a slice of love or pudding for the poor?
No one but me seems to see
these thoughts that I once thought
should get a sane person locked
up.
but not for that, not for that,
no, not for that would I shave
bits of bone and two trombones
and a lifetime of screaming dreams
10,000 at a time on someone’s chest
1 at a time must we live this way
must we die this way, this belly aching
fascist national nationalism
hell bent on dreaming green bills
and as long as the paper cuts
on the inside of your ass don’t bleed
so bad they need surgery
we’ll shit the presidents of lost memories
(who’s on the 50?)
up into a fireworks sky of july
maybe the 10th, maybe the 12th,
who can say when a day should be remembered
like all the days of my life that I swore
“I’m going to remember this one this time”
”I swear”
like a babbling idiot savant of numbers infmany
we’ll take turns sitting at bat for bullshit
waiting for culture to catch up to the teeming
insects jumping around all over eachother
(we should just go get it over with
in the bathroom – I know of a bar where the stall door locks.)
screaming at low volumes
