tired of torn tickets
of sneak previews
of waiting for others’ suffering to catch up.
words can’t bridge the gap.
I should be asleep
but sleep means the end of freedom and
sticking out my chin for the
fist of another day.
the creep of hot buttery tears
trying to skip
to the end of suffering
is like trying to commit suicide
with a slingshot.
I just shouldn’t be here no more
grammar
be
damned.
Life is a dagger of ice
melting to blameless water
before you can fight back.
Tell Death I’m going to steal his car.
The hour smiles as it flees, tagging the next with an outstretched minute hand. I am free of those motherfuckers for 2 days, 2 glorious days. Some of us are in prison every day. Freedom means nothing, it’s a Japanese kite with no instructions. I can no more fuck a woman than a man behind bars. Hell, have you ever driven by a place where inmates are allowed visits by their wives and girlfriends? Such pieces of ass you’ve never seen, it’s disgusting, you’re disgusting, your face is a sad turd under a bowl of hot evil sky. Oh how I wish hell would take a break, rest its charred burning buttocks on the bench and let me remember what it felt like to breathe icy cool air to the bottom of my lungs and not worry all the fucking time, worry about this fucking joke, this life, this fate, this karmic krud. Now here is freedom like a hungry bear, like constipation, like the next hour smirking around the track. The second hand slices the thin air inside the gasping clock. Your life drips like an IV into a mummy of dissatisfaction. Like the handsome fag at work said: “What are you prepared to sacrifice for your dream?” He leaves me alone in the break room with wondrous silence, the lying, cheating vending machines and the “family” newspaper with an action photo of a champion 13-year old water-skiing girl with the ass of a gilt goddess. I am so fucked, body and soul, I could be tried and convicted of murdering my own virginity of everything except being stupid. Big tits leave the best shadows, I could follow them forever. One heavy footstep follows the next, the shaky legs of my brain carry the story forward, one ache at a time. March.
Why are clocks so fat? They always have seconds!
The joke bombs.
She smiles wanly, which means
not at all.
Day two after we
fucked
for the first time and she acts like
I farted in her face.
I did no such thing.
An egg of sunlight sliced
by the dusty blinds
falls around the room.
There’s an old poster of Prince on her wall.
The Purple Faggot didn’t get this pussy, I did.
But now it’s over. Maybe she faked it, faked all of it.
Who cares. It’s over. I learned nothing new cause I already
knew it.
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