March 29, 2004
That draft inside my ribcage has gotten old rattling the
coal against the bone.
Could be that I need a chesterfield to fill the room,
or could be that I have smoked too many
of my comforts today.
The wheeze is there, in my side. That's it.
So who's going to write my pilot?
and cast some homo loser as lead?
The umph umph is like a bullet in the leg,
two on sundays
before 8 pm.
That girl I love doesn't seem to get it.
Neither does the boy...
or the womb that I grudgingly left.
The oldest of my genes don't even know
and the rest of my blood doesn't matter.
What's more than softcore porn and an overpriced pint?
Around the glaring inadequacies
and portly asses that long for
watching the best of the torsi vie for a prize.
and I'm a shallow prick too.
so... why wonder about the reason for the
lack of comfortable seating?
I could point at anything
bang and blame.
but it comes back to the sigh
and the closet that's full
but not of me.
Wonderin' if maybe it should be.
There are days when I think about
going the way of a sex pistol.
but I doubt I'd be any less embarrassed in that.
An odd one slips in here and there..
the Orkin Man takes care.
I sit with the sigh and think about
schnitzel, szechuan, tandoori, rank cheese,
yorkie pudding, red snapper.
anything that isn't here.
Where there isn't a gay McDonalds with seal-
skinned foreign waiters and puzzled
who don't know Tricky.
But I am just as mingled aren't I?
can't pretend I'm not
can't pretend I haven't swam in the pool.
I do wish that I didn't have the time to write this
or the experience to back it up.
April 16, 2004
why would I want to know?
somehow you think it’s a great idea to phone up
and lemme know how great it(he) is.
of course I am bothered, and you don’t know why.
so sensitive huh?
well bollucks and fuck your saturday.
much worse to actually see it.
guess you don’t get it. I don’t want to be your sidekick.
funny as I am I’m not just some goddamn comic relief.
though it is better than being the
fat girl with the lisp.
I guess I hate you a little.
not that it’s you. cause it’s me.
just how I am when you are there.
and I hear your life.
and see it.
and I feel like some tart
good for only one or two things.
with insides like fruit left outside in july.
and I have noticed that people avoid and ignore a sad fag.
why don’t I just snap out of it already?
of course they don’t say that.
they just say nothing. at all.
it’s not like I want to start crying at random.
we all know there’s nothing sad about putting sugar in your coffee.
or lighting your cigarette. or the ttc.
such a funk.
Passing the house with the joker
25 more minutes of road,
swamp, field and dark.
With asinine alternative or
angry girls or angry boys to feel accompanied.
I can’t imagine a more desolate stretch of time.
But no I don’t do it.
and I sometimes wish I did.
Being enroute to the deck,
and the femmes and the
We can’t imagine doing that anymore.
So we have a city and comparitive poverty,
a best friend that’s like married.
oh, she’s got green eyes.
too busy to look at me.
I guess my browns should be too busy to return the favour.
but no. maybe what I do is too easy.
and my gaze is returned mostly by the cow and calf,
or a dialogue box.
there’s not connections there like there used to be,
or anywhere else actually.
it’s the way of this place I guess.
But there is also not the same sort of
freak commonality forcing
on one another.
So one goes away, mind as well be to
Oz. but she needs this.
I get it.
But I need her.
Filling her shoes with an import..
surely a lucky find.
but not as lovely as the export.