so i am working no i am quitting.
No, thing is I am working idling,
for the Rite, the plight, the plundered spite
Can’t see the point of this-that juncture
Other futures I’d prefer to junk her
When life beckons waste the day
Media Whore not of Babylon but funny happy consumer play
far more approachable
if I had monies with which to eat seratonin cereal
flakes grinding betwixt plaque-ridden ivoryscape
Lame ill motherfuckers, you all I hate
Yours and you, defined by it and tits.
I deserve a name on the streetcorner, to step on and piss
so where’s my half of the emptying glass decayed?
Sleep is for the wicked and wakefulness for the lazy spayed.
Its a dusted tainty dainty space
where I will have made my redundant marked pissed place.
To put more bluntly, what I want of you and what you want is of me
yet neither of our bargains a very good deal.
Someone in the equation is more quadratic than the next,
and it ain’t me hun, its best
Time would rather be spent in masturboratory excess.
Or else, come the impotence, much less
In one epoch’s time the hole in my mind,
in one eon’s space the gap in brains,
and its not a visual sense of whatnot
any more than a babe’s eyes are half-eaten fleshly muck
or mire in the span of a thousand goat-things made of Pentagram heads
or rather Pentagon beds
where they sleep with things not of the silica
but of the pinnacle —
of undream and profane and unlife and propane.
Cuz declerations of intent are not ready to implement,
marathon running under the radar, not too prickly or good or sub-par.
Its an overwhelming mess inside this matter, its a bit too lame get any sadder.
Nah, not a peach, eh, trust a leech.
See, its not my kind of scene — I’d rather be a beautiful fantasy, in clean, in real-life, in boring planet harvested spice.
Paid attention, an expensive price.
Stolen perception, what a life.
well-structured, well-thought out, yeah right.
Too dull, too boring, say goodnight.
IN THE MAIL
MOAN AND WAIL