And riding into a big I-don’t-know-what
Gigantic thing.
and we plant the polyps, these ones are good,
really good
made of the fresh hot misery of innocent girl
caught in the crossfire from my sharp tongue
and the vacuum of her self-worth
and the words fell out of me like dead critters, man
“I am too old to put up with people that don’t believe in themselves”
I mean that.
I too would like the one-way ticket out of here
But that subway waits like so many unsuspecting trees
And half-as entertaining
Draw some lines
In the sand, with some cans, in cocaine, in ketamine hydrochloride
“time marches on…”
Tell me all about the cold; I live in southern California.
I am too busy to hold any heart
Too dry to sprout any seed
but I am just the right age to plant polyps
smack in the middle of it
the skittering eyes can’t even see it coming
but- it is not the sting of a venom laced harpoon
rater- the sarcastic blown-kiss
that reeking bile that slips out of the corners of my lips
when I say things like “praise the lord”
or “two famous-stars with cheese; and do you think you could make them with santa-fe-sauce instead of mayonnaise. Yeah, with cheese, thanks.”
And Like everything else
it falls apart like a house of cards.
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