Yes! the place where we can all get together and share our most intimately inspired moments, tear down the bathroom walls an share our bathroom thoughts. Write about anything, poems, short stories,post images/videos, but I ask that you stay true to the shitblog and only post stuff that was conceived from the toilet.
To become an author on ToiletMoment, simply send an email to mbm0101@unt.edu asking to become an author. I look forward to seeing everyone's moment(s)
The following is from Merrie Earnest. Her name is Olde Englishe and means "Joy Sincerity" in modern tongue. The following is privileged information, which means: don't abuse it. The addresses and phone are for poetry night purposes, and I trust that even as an open post, this is all they will be used for. Unless, of course, you get to be great friends with Merrie, because she's badass and all, but then you wouldn't need this post would you? you sick bastard.
Poetry night shall be Sunday night at 9:00--my place. (615 W. Oak St. - Apt. E. Yellow House.)
It will not be about particulars, critiques, or names.
It becomes only what you have become, what you bring to this inky feast,
a desire shared and bent into words, futile little doves we madmen keep on catching,
thinking only seldom to let them go.
Also, tell your friends and anyone who wants to breathe poetic air.
My number is 214-202-0030 if anyone has any questions about location, my dreams, etc. But my phone is currently broken so just query me via e-mail. I live via these e-mails btw. That's why there's so many. Feed me.
She first began to feel it as a phantom thumb. Her thumb hadn't been gone long, and if it was destroyed out of frustration, it was only natural that the frustration of not being able to use it, not being able to rely on the greatest evolutionary achievement of our race, would bring it back.
She could pop the joint, explore the angles of the knuckle, idly pare the nail. It was the nail-paring that alerted her to the "presence" of another. Thumb.
Another thumb.
On her left hand, where to the casual witness there would appear to be four parallel digits, Berkley Hedgerow felt a near fin, a fan of phalanges, and damn she could play that twelve-finger rag; had Waller on a platter and Joplin in the bag. So she wasn't having a bad time about it. It was probably the opposable toes that first brought back that same frustration which caused her to chew off her thumb in the first place. She was powerless to realize the Chimp-Toe Boogie she has effortlessly audiated after discovering her phantom toes. She felt clumsy, unsure without the support of a radial digit.
Without a revolving axis, a revolutionary axis, what influence could she have? Only the most shallow of significance: direct approach, phallic, astrologically masculine. A severed thumb. As if she had become her missing piece, a mere ghost.
But this orbital axis, made the more important by Galileo's etymological contribution, was that about which her attention revolved. The axis would reorient itself, with some regard to her Cartesian planes, without regard to Berkley's desires or cognitive limits. It paralleled her spine, and spun, and new limbs sprang from her body, new, truly new, unjointed or many-jointed, strong or weak or anostic, moving or frozen like some Hindu ikon. The thumb was only just beyond a novelty, the toes a cause for rejoice, the invention of the axis a cause for rebirth... The axis spins and shifts, appendages bloom, and this linear obsession is reduced to an origin: a single point from which the anemone frame of her body was able to bloom. And Berkley only one of--
The Egyptians loved the cat
Were often entombed with it
Instead of with the women
And never with the dog
But now
Here
Good people with
Good eyes
Are very few
You fine cats
With great style
Lounge about
In the alleys of
The universe.
About
Our argument tonight
Whatever it was
About
And
No matter
How unhappy
It made us
Feel
Remember that
There is a
Cat
Somewhere
Adjusting to the
Space of itself
With a delightful
Grace
In other words
Magic persists
Without us
No matter what
We may try to do
To spoil it.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
this should not be happening 3x a day. something is sick about my intestines.
here's a shitty video:
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Slept all day. Fuckt all night. Jim Morrison where are you? Your nightmare so great mine almost seems managable. Be my dead indian and speak for me in deliberated drawls crawl out of this hot place inside splooshing splashing instantly crusting tomatoes boiling spittling tentacles laying to rest let's get dressed together matching our hot rich bloods on the outside force our logical new fashion sense left in our element boil our animal parts combined it won't be hard to find a devil to drink this sick stew. Be gone! Hold me to your self! Just the flesh though, just the good stuff, the rest will evaporate or drip through the grate in the floor, but forget that just squeeze GET SCARCE!
Friday, July 23, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Leonard Burnstein means “go” at the end of his stroke and its gone it has left. Ol Lenny found eternity as he expected for the most part “A little clingy isn’t it” he neglected to ask himself, with a godhead that size who can blame intimidation. Well the universe has had its context removed in a brief battle with a solemnly literal monk, her tiny hands had chipped away at conceptual space like a blow torch held by an ice sculpture during a snow storm. Of course the universe was only accustomed to harsh Siberian winters, its own mother having perished improbably in an flurry no more severe than the universe’s reception by the strict monk. Detached aggression found itself at home, oddly attached in the universe’s fat, pulpy heart, to the ghost of both mother and self--moreso self due to a persistent obligor that was the infinite cosmic shhlucking, a black-whole, an other cancerous another --several in-flux instances of superposition like charged plates, between and around which energetic fields squeeze and push through matter. Thus, the disunion of the universe and its notion of self propelled the stone--passed piteously through the monk’s urinary tract--through all points of space and time. As a result all weights measured in the universe are twice of previous values and all stovetop recipes include exceptions for culinars working above ten thousand feet higher than sea level.. this is only made more complicated by the fact that while the majority of human beings alive on the planet earth live in poverty beyond the reach of buttery treats, the elite who do have access have organized and constructed a governing body operating, surprisingly, four hundred feet below the sea level. The Mediterranean Sea to be precise.
This body, conceived by its units as a kind of embodiment of the look one gets on their face when recognizing ones own body odor scent in the body odor scent of another, finds minimal effect on the world as a whole but has a more significant impact on local sea creatures, and has even been accused of being responsible for the damage of more than forty dead porpoises found washed up on Greek shores, their relatively flat teeth impacted with hardened cow butter. Suspicions grow as of late as to the divicating Monk’s relationship with certain groups of animal trainers who carry indications of holding ties with both large herds of captive bovine and more show-offy dolphin groups. Pundits have commented that not only grass-fed bovine is an agreeable companion to cured butter, dolphins’ demonstrated affinity for piano concerto draws the species into a parallel with human taste for finery. Further, they point out the late Bernstein’s disappointed statement made issue following his first meeting with a porpoise, during which he indicated a sense of lackluster. They “wouldn’t even jump for my fishy,” lamented the world renowned symphony conductor and composer of the score of “West Side Story” with two limp carps in his slimy cupped hands. Incidents like this were hardly isolated throughout this man’s life, and the same melancholy set the tone for interactions with the likes of Tony Danza and Bob Seger, although both meetings were dinner dates during which it is known that all parties feasted upon tuna steaks--once with a mustard butter sauce, and once with the same style sauce but with the addition of chopped bell peppers and ginger. At a dinner date with actor Danza, Bernstein tasted the tender flesh on his dish, set down his dining utensils and rose in formal grandiose declaring, “Ginger for the ignorant and wise, for the blind and the sighted, for the naive and the cosmopolitan!” He then spat upon the tablecloth and left for the bar where he ordered a Tony Idaho. He quickly emptied the martini glass and exited the restaurant, leaving the rugged responsible mister-mom-type Tony Danza staring in disbelief. While little is known thus far to suspect any involvement between Danza, Seger, and the subconscious paranoia spread by the monk, we can indicate at least a few pervasive notions.. Defensive. Real real defensive. Paranoid. Real real Paranoid. I mean that I think smash.
There can be only one
Morris Graves
one brush stroke, only one
so make it count
(1,2,3,) no, only one i said
only takes one bullet to the head
only one yellow only one red
only green blue and in between only one i said
only when there can only be what is already
is when
There can be only one
sky
only one dj tiesto,
there can be only one
Ted Berri-gin n tonic, albeit poly
shore enough is one and only one
there can be only one
mime
only one life,
only one rhyme
worthy to call mine
Mayan, mayne, main lion aint i lie'n on
yo bed can i share this air with you
no let us stand and be wealthy
understand there can be only one truth
one Abraham Lincoln, one William Booth,
only one Morton Feldman, one John Cage
one Robert Frost, only one William Blake
only one earthquake before California calls it quits
Only One T-Pain, Only one
Only one John Wayne, only one
only one snow fall a year, for texas that is.
only one Jay Buhner, only one Tim Allen
only one Jim Carrol, only one Bill Murray
one Will Ferrel, thank fucking christ
and there can be one thousand santa clause's
but there can be only one lou rawls's
once upon a time there was a little poodle named james. james was a happy little poodle. james had lots of friends, lots of fur, and lots of fun with his fur and friends! he liked to go to the dog park with his master, kyle, and check out all the lovely girl poodles. ...one day he was at the park, playing frisbee with master kyle, when he came across a beautiful daschund. james couldn't help himself....and so he decided to go right up to this beautiful daschund and say,"woof, woof!" the daschund stared at him for a few seconds, but then replied with another "woof, woof!" james knew at this point that the daschund was his soul mate. the daschund's name....james later found out....was chick. chick-fil-a. james and chick became inseparable. they went everywhere together! they went to petsmart, best buy, ross, starbucks, tuesday morning, friday night, guilford college, preakness place, texaco, lowe's....everywhere! they had a hell of a time, and no one could tell them or bark them differently. BUT one day an evil, evil, evil, evil woman came along named clappy. clappy was so evil that no one would clap anymore in her presence, for fear that it would upset her and she would set a curse upon them. clappy had been watching the 2 dogs strutting along happily together for weeks now, and she suddenly decided that she didn't like all this lovey-doveyness. "NO!" said clappy. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I say NOOOOOOOOO!" Clappy was a woman of few words. But none the less, clappy decided to curse the 2 dogs. so one day clappy went into the dog park disguised as an innocent young girl with curly blonde hair and piercing blue eyes and fed james and chick rat poison. fake rat poison. fake rat poison that was actually an advil. "hahahahaha, you dogs can't take an advil, you will die! it's human medicine!" exclaimed clappy after james and chick had consumed the fake rat poison.
"woof....woof, woof!" james barked triumphantly at her.
and then clappy died instantly. she was gone forever. the whole town rejoiced.
james and chick trotted off into the distance, dog...-kissing one another, happy at their defeat of clappy and the continuation of their love for one another.
the end.
I started writing this after my brother Trayce gave me the mission to use terms I learned in the Astrology class I was continually complaining about and to generate a poem r somethin out of it. So I began and in the middle of doing so, I had an Aneurysm . I blacked out for a good 30 minutes went to the ER and got the wheels movin again. Went home and finished the poem. Here it is in it's entirety, the poem that tried to kill me. (note: one way to read this is to go down to the bottom and click play on the video then scroll back up and read)
............................................
The Number 9 or what it takes to kill a Star
Charles Alcock developed Doucheology
based on his astronothing theory,
Black hole...straight ahead!
Supernova weasel turd particles
gas omit radio waves. Space travel?
Review the death of stars. Lower-main sequence
stars, Red Dwarfs, Sunlike stars, Planetary nebulae,
White Binary stars, recycled stellar evolution, Accretion Disks,
Nova Explosions.
The End of Earth, The iron core, The Great Super nova of 1987.
Life on Earth. More peculiar.
The orbit of materials. The Moon. The 12 visible planets.
The density of Galileo. The law of inertia- avoid it.
The value of data is the table below.
Individual goal: Eliminate bias. Estimate the actual value.
Modern. Bach. The Fugue. The Fugees.
Allanis Morrisette. Limp Bizkit. Insane Clown Posse.
Brady. Invertible counterpoint. How to compose
a sequence...Standardize. Technique called Fusion.
The particle is looped. Each weighing done in the same room,
by the same group of people, the same technique.
Counter-clockwise cellestial sequence. System reaches system.
The spectra of stars are produced...no longer gravitationally bound.
This relationship of
centers
continues to form. But, prepare for cadence.
When all the nuclear fuel in a star is used up, gravity will win over pressure and the star will die. Die in a gigantic explosion.
Mozart to Haydn. Error tends to be distributed.
Most of our data is a change of scale.
Compare scores...who did better? For what?
To the need in what score?
Creation continues.
rotating gitches associated with Changes.
Understanding the I-Ching.
Matter fows, time fucks up,
and it gets hot as shit.
Et toi? Je danse.
electrons raped
Je chante. Je chanterais.
Op.33, it's 1780, Haydn's gettin pretty popular.
London, pretty big deal.
Meter agreed.
The weights and measures whose time technicians listen
again and graph.
List genre, concepts, and changes.
Charecteristic of movement.
More brass! More percussion! significant!
Less massive stars will die in a less dramatic event.
Only person with less literature written about his life than Jesus...
Wagner...
then, there was Bellini. a Bookstore. Classroom. Parking lot. Movie Theater. Verdi. Rossini. Puchinni, Madame Butterfly. Merci beaucoup !Berlioz.
Boulez. Mendelssohn.
Bo Bo.
Me.
You.
The roles we play,
open time up to a crazy, lazy feeling.
Girl turned her hands, revealed palms.
I take back my hips.
You get your swishin hard feet. Taco Bell, more masculine.
Go! Combine! Spin rapidly! See pulses! Visible light?
Bullshit! Beaucoup de temps...Sortiez! Dansiez! Mes amis,
emit visible pulses, persist longer.
The event horizon, a black hole singularity.
Et ensuite, Prepare measurement, Bias.
Pushing them in the same direction. Hair on the scale.
Stems repeat. we know change chance is left.
Brightness does not depend on temperature.
Becomes no limit.
White. The envelope tells white Chinese astronomers through theory.
A dwarf produced.
Radiation can occur when paradox is magnetic.
Material no longer gravitationally bound.
As material leaves, fall into, form around
nothing.
Fusion around every sequence, life.
Stars do suspect their own death.
Stellar giants inside, our evidence. A white dwarf,
our smaller size.
Cumulative form.
Stockhausen. Reich. Crumb. Seeger. Percussion juxtaposed pointillism.
Start each identity.
Shostakovich. Copland. More broad audience.
Gillespie. Parker. Contra fact. Barber. Babar.
freedom of structure, allusions to Cage,
random like Napolean Dynamite, the FIRST time.
Prokofiev played alot like Rachmaninoff.
Root position harmonies.
Riley. Post-awesome. Blues "lick" gets melded into a stew.
Polyrhythmic layering evokes Krenek.
Wiell. Viel. Veal. Tradition. Past. Useful.
Hindemith gets out of Germany before it's too late.
Emphatically post tonal. Chords get banned during Nazi Regime.
What is left? Schoenberg.
Wars. Politics. Inevitable factor. No connections. Autonomy across the world.
Music and France become a problem.
Post tonal says the teach. What counts as allowable classical models?
Les six. Stravinsky...not a jew!
Jazz was exhausted. Milhaud. Primitive ballet. Response to Rite of Spring
After the value of finding the data. Pictures and plots draw from the smallest classes, including zero.
If a companion can exchange, energy more luminous collides.
Evidence of active fusion, different zones, from outer to innermost.
Schubert. Gretchen am Spinnrade, German lieder.
Jeanie with the Light brown hair. Beethoven Piano Sonata in C minor,
or String Quartet in C#, Chopin's Nocturne in Db, List- trois etude pour piano. Poor piano.
Schumann's song cycles. More moments of "music" rather than lengthy "nothings",
you know what i mean?
More Mozart doing Rossini. This new concept combines the first smile of her face announced by 3 strokes of a silver gong.
Poon City, I ain't drivin to you no more
Poon City, Ya ain't gon see me no more
I stayed a while and Id stay some more
but i gotta be leavin on out the door
so Poon City I guess this means Goodbye
Yo city now its filled with tiny lights
and yo poon it gets me so high so high
yo summer dress it dance in the moonlight
but in poon city, it aint gon stay on long
oh poon city how good you been to me
oh poon city how good you been to me
but oh poon city i just gottsa be movin along
on down the road, pocket full of spoons
an a greasy widdo chode
my life will be long
longer then the Mississipi
my load will be large
a large bARge
that wont budge till
i nudge
a lil hodge podge drove a dodge
he might be your janitor
he might drive a bus
whatever he is
its not what he is
but how he does it
hes "withers"
portraits of valleys hung on his wall
plauge on his breath
and a rusty spoon in his jaw
he doesnt like porches
he prefers them shadows
alleys and backstreets
dumpster behind your sons daycare
he's "withers"
his front lawn yawned
tire swings and a volleyball pit
miniature eagles on his table
and cups filled with spit
he's "withers"
wine satisfies
a boy that died
so a fridge supplies
what pervades his mind
in the tiny box that he fills
he's "Withers"
boy likes his sinnin
you could tell
cause he grinnin
hed drive you to soccer practice and leave y'in the rain
spoon likes his skin, but hed rather rape your brain
he's "Withers"
and he'll wither on
a dusty road
or in a yellow toothed lie
he'll lie
he's "Withers"
Out having breakfast this morning,
over coffee,
in somewhat of a slump,
I was thinking to myself,
"Holy shit, Joe!
You'd better do something,
anything,
to shape up your life a bit,
or else."
And so I decided that,
for starters,
I would try to be more outgoing,
with my waitress,
Other than just getting
my usual order,
and saying "thank you,"
as it arrives,
and so,
as she was standing right in
front of me,
cleaning out a large,
white plastic container
of soe abstract sort,
I opened up my mouth to issue forth,
"What's that?"
silence,
I guess you didn't hear me,
nevertheless,
I gave myself a pat on the back,
on my way home,
just a tiny e for tiny effort,
but with total faith that,
any step in the right direction,
is secretly a giant one.
I knew a man who found the fountain of youth inside a
bottle of kentucky deluxe
Well he drank that stuff couldn't get enough, wouldn't
take to workin or anything that wasn't a cup.
He said, "all I need is kentucky deluxe."
Well the preacher kept preachin and his wife kept weepin
and her hanky was a-seepin with the tears of her greivin
oh no!!!!!!!11
well he couldn't fix her cause he didn't need no mixer he
filed for devorce didn't take no picture when he left
he said .......
well he started down the road found a coffin full of gold
aint no lost or found or so he'd been told.
well bought a duck and an ocean full of whiskey and thats
how he met me and i never did come back up.
he said.....
well he's a thousand years old floatin on an ocean in a
coffin full of gold thats just what ive been told
he don't look a day older there's a straw on his shoulder
to a tank of a drank that won't let his life smoulder.
he said.....
Sunday, February 21, 2010
One more rumble to tell my last story. The final telling to the final audience, finally told right. The final step before the final tumble. The looking around and seeing frozen in time, the blocks of stone and mortar hoovering above the earth, the frozen fear within human forms canvasing the mother, their planet. Frozen wind in all the ears. Frozen vaccuum in the throat gasping, grasping with the mind this matter this tiny measure of air over the matter of fact, the finality of this act of the walls falling out and the sky falling down, as it were upon our own forms these pockets of spirit, these holy encounters, these holes in ideals, no more free meals. The time has come, the occasion is final and after being frozen for years the Lord returns to the sheep, reclaiming their wooly minds for the mortar for the new church must be built and the cost is in lives.
when i was five my mother called old women to lift my shirt and say german measles though the doctor only said measles with a needle in my arm there were so many: tetanus locks your jaw after being pierced by rusty metal and is prevented by being pierced by shiny steel
penicillin in my hip and a dead leg for three days, no bananas for fifteen years no cats and a bottle of benadryl in every room with a k on top, and so saying pediatrician was easier than saying hero
they saved me from pneumonia, strep throat, blood in my lungs, asthma, chronic sinusitis, pneumonia again, we thought it was consumption tuberculosis tests by broken pathogen like everything else a needle in my arm ear infection, throat infection, lung infection: idiopathic pneumonia again, and every other winter a week in bed doctors' orders, pill bottles lined up and I speak pseudoephedrine, diphenhydramine, loratidine, acetaminophen, depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation, insomnia the writers' disease Enough.
If I have to choose, I'll take rusty metal and gather up bananas cats and poetry, laugh at the pollen on my grave.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
plip plop plip plop descending like meteorites to the cold blue waters of my bowl
The things they always complain of,
coming from outside and again on leaving,
there are so many of us crowded in here,
and we are all so aloof and alone,
We, here, are always alone,
every city alone in this country,
which has never learned to accept it's cities,
every city on it's own,
alone,
and doomed,
"born to lose" written on it's walls,
yet, here we stay in it,
and keep coming to it,
we keep pouring ourselves in and out,
We light the skies with ourselves sometimes,
sometimes someone may be watching those lights.
We are using ourselves,
people , bodies,
instead of trees and grass, and earth
We eat people instead of eating the land,
We watch love and hate bloom all around us,
not weeds or flowers, as in so many other places
We keep thinking we are making something from our own
bones and blood, and flesh,
and not, like the others, living off the land
We know that the oldest city was so,
We know that the newest city will be so,
It will always be the place the others use,
while they keep complaining about it,
while they send what they make from the earth,
while they send what they can't use,
while they send what they want to sell
for what we have to give them in return
They send their poets, and their whores,
and their painters, their conmen,
their dancers, their thieves,
their dreamers, their murderers,
and we add our own to these, yes,
maybe you can not have one without the other,
maybe, indeed, you need all in this city,
I don't know if this is right,
I only know the need to use oneself,
to bet on oneself even when it's fixed,
rather than watching things grow outside one,
and then killing them,
and then piling them up,
And then, when the ports and the crossroads,
and the easy-jumps-across-rivers
aren't needed anymore for their commerce,
the songs, and the poems,
and the dancers, and the drawings
of things imagined and real,
will come out of the rub of people against people,
will keep pouring out of the city's people,
feeding the people who are angry,
feeding them,
This feeding started in the first gathering,
and will go on until the last gathering,
because while the world builds itself in the void,
people alone hunger for eachother always,
for whatever it is that only people can make,
for whatever it is that only people can feed eachother.
Friday, January 22, 2010
And here in the moment of release is there not a sense of "in it's own time" and "at last"? In the ceasing of conscious effort is there not a newness in awareness or scope of awareness? What is the mood of this new awareness? Is it the lioness' long sensual flop upon the earth? Is it the deep huff in and puff-out partnered with her first lazy gaze over the horizon? Is it the volumptuous rythmic panting that is causing a heavy thread of spittle to swing loosely from the sweltering tongue?
i was gifted a hilariously confusing discussion between one nina kosmach and "ashley"? what i loosely gathered from this interesting piece; the antagonist, Ashley is an easily bored person that has become driven to frustration, at times bordering on schizophrenia. Her frustration manifests in the form of a verbal combat, a "chat challenge" ,or a "word war", in which she gathers concepts and accusations like clothes (from bottom of box @ Denton Thrift)and tries to "suite them up for an online battle". In doing so, she provides an abstract, yet somewhat persuasive thesis statement worthy of your poo view. Let's take a look now...
Original Document
whiteticktock (3:48:22 AM): stick to your own boyfriend and leave the rest of ours alone please!
jefumelecigare (3:48:42 AM): what
jefumelecigare (4:31:16 AM): whiteticktock (4:09:44 AM): all we want is for you to leave Andrew alone. we don't go sniffing around your boyfriend.
jefumelecigare (4:10:04 AM): i dont even know an andrew
jefumelecigare (4:10:56 AM): do you even know who i am?
jefumelecigare (4:11:13 AM): i dont has a boyfriend
jefumelecigare (4:31:28 AM): jefumelecigare (4:15:27 AM): so is andrew cute?
jefumelecigare (4:15:31 AM): can i meet him?
jefumelecigare (4:15:42 AM): does he think i'm cute?
whiteticktock (4:16:00 AM): probably
jefumelecigare (4:31:42 AM): jefumelecigare (4:16:23 AM): but seriously yo
jefumelecigare (4:16:30 AM): i think you are harrassing the wrong girl
jefumelecigare (4:16:43 AM): check yo spelling
jefumelecigare (4:17:51 AM): hey are you hungry?
whiteticktock (4:17:57 AM): is this Nina?
jefumelecigare (4:31:51 AM): jefumelecigare (4:18:00 AM): wanna go to whataburger with me?
jefumelecigare (4:18:09 AM): this is nineer
jefumelecigare (4:18:18 AM): who is this?
whiteticktock (4:18:27 AM): then I have the right girl.
jefumelecigare (4:32:00 AM): jefumelecigare (4:18:34 AM): ok but i dont know an andrew
whiteticktock (4:19:47 AM): ok. sure. bye
jefumelecigare (4:19:54 AM): wait!
jefumelecigare (4:19:57 AM): whataburger?
whiteticktock (4:20:07 AM): ahh maybe another night?
jefumelecigare (4:20:17 AM): who is this mang?
whiteticktock (4:20:36 AM): or morning.. Ashley, that's all I'm saying
jefumelecigare (4:20:52 AM): ok bye
wasting through dry desert days aching for somethin green coyote lurking, showin his ribs, fear and hunger makin him mean, and the sand in his eyes sun on his neck dust in the air
haven't heard the rain all year
the desert is makin me lean, makin me lean got me missin things i aint even seen waves on the shore, wet sand in my toes green trees and forest, lord only knows how this desert is makin me lean
yucca's got roots go a mile deep 'cause it knows how sand keeps shifting and time can break down any stone does me no good, i keep on drifting with this sand in my eyes sun on my neck dust in the air
haven't heard the rain all year
and the desert is makin me lean, makin me lean got me missin things i aint even seen waves on the shore, wet sand in my toes green trees and forest, lord only knows how this desert is makin me lean
drunk on the dark streets of some city,
it's night, you're lost, where's your
room?
you enter a bar to find yourself,
order scotch and water.
damned bar's sloppy wet, it soaks
part of one of your shirt
sleeves.
It's a clip joint-the scotch is weak.
you order a bottle of beer.
Madame Death walks up to you
wearing a dress.
she sits down, you buy her a
beer, she stinks of swamps, presses
a leg against you.
the bar tender sneers.
you've got him worried, he doesn't
know if you're a cop, a killer, a
madman or an
Idiot.
you ask for a vodka.
you pour the vodka into the top of
the beer bottle.
It's one a.m. In a dead cow world.
you ask her how much for head,
drink everything down, it tastes
like machine oil.
you leave Madame Death there,
you leave the sneering bartender
there.
you have remembered where
your room is.
the room with the full bottle of
wine on the dresser
.
the room with the dance of the
roaches.
Perfection in the Star Turd
where love died
laughing.
Brazing. Abrazed, grazed just, close shave indeed, close call, calling on a date, a date with an angel, a date with destiny.
Destiny's Child, amazing. Amazed, crazed I, the thoughts I might need, keeping them close, too close to call, more like an instinct, instinct to drill, instinct to kill.
How thrilling. Thrilled, I'm sure, shmarmy carbs, Carrie draws on her aunt's curtains, long indigo cees on the old dyke's drapes, spiteful lakes invaded by mireful drakes, new changes to pace the old family face.
Lazy. Zero-scaped the person-fake, he built it gradually up over time, more a practice of patience than of prose, so stumbled when he felt like it was time he should be standing up, not noticing once standing up that he should maybe now be something other places, better with faces than names, but you all look the same, he wouldn't bother insist, but he would still lay a warm hand on your wrist.
This time. It must all be about timing. Forgiving himself in a reasonable plane, the feeling of separation was not going to wane any further it seemed "So why would I need to just take this, smoggy feeling like a bump on a log any longer just where the fucks are my rogering coal lighters this time."
If anyone finds this you must be far luckier than me. My name is Kevin and you can't know the shit i've seen. We're talking fucked up shit bro, real stone cold motherfucker shit fuckin 'Eh' bro. This kind of shit changes you bro, in a bad way, in a hard way bro, this is how i grew up now bro, no kind of going back bro, you can't change the way you is bro, we born and we grow up how we grow up bro, ain't no second chance I'm telling you bro. I'm Tellin you bro. You ain't Seen some fucked up shit like I've seen bro. Shit made me scissor cut off all my toes.
