Longing and mourning over someone who had never loved me
and wont no more
bent in sorrow over his dead dash
like a driver
starting the dead mule
beating around the bush
beating the dead horse

looking for work: indipendant woman.

will he care: no.
And she hsitated stupidly over silliest things... texting him that he would make her happy
with this thing called just a kiss
not a
f.u.c.k
not a fucking thing but a simple kiss that rolls simple off his lips
He were asleep in the bed that night before.She tried to waken him in the morning.
The unhappy fellow he was to have her around he turned around
She was looking out into oblivion
looking out for him...
the poor shmuck
the lucky bastard to have gotten away with her pearls that shouldve been dangling from her ears at that very moment and she didnt want to stand it anymore... him.
she wanted to just steal her dignity back from him like
one does a blanket in the night
but it werent that simple
she wanted to steal and give at the same time
she wanted lips to collide in the night like armies battling
she wanted to engage in intellectual spiritual intercourse
But he was just a kid in a fantasy world playing a game and not putting any chips on the table.
He was just a joe keeping a job
He was just a man obsessed with flight
riding roughly down road he noted a low flying plane to his base.
He tried to not talk to himself in the car with her.
She was struggling deeply with hard and heavy emotions breathing
like a horse she
strggled so hard in broad daylight
it was easy at night to do this
someone if she were trying to fight with her angels could shed tears
and massage them into her wide cheekbones
not here. So she struggled within...
stifling, thinking of lovely things to say to understanding ears not his own.
he did not look bad in uniform
he did not look good with sleepless eyes prolonged by green cans of soda
like a horse she struck the ground with hooves demanding regret from him and continuous physical contact whichhe had shut off like an alarm
"too much" went the beeeping sound
that day when she served him to the hilt to the very end of his being and she knew it and she knew it
it was so
and now in histories records
it was a
f.u.c.k
just a fuck ...
was she
just a
just a?

despite opinion
i should like to exhert inthis time of false beats
that it is all about making it on time
and waiting for that special event which will change your
currently un- or just so slightly mottled life
You wait teetering on a chair
you state satiate your feelings
spill coffee on the snow leave rusty stains of blood
you profess love
contempt
and value life for what its worth
you sit in full expectation that is and almost want to be handed a holy car
the oly card with a crowned jesus king
because its all about the timing in the off beats and the
pollock hand
responding to the coltrane thelonius gershwin
spattering pit tat pat
tunes sweeping the night
you take off
your shirt
finally allowing your hands to spread out from under your body like goose

its fucking cold for the kykes in winter
the animals that they are and the niggers too
and the krauts though they dont want to admit it

we all hide our heads upnder our wings when we wait for the bus
we camofalge with the snow
I made a shrine to woody guthrie in my closet space where i think
I have him painted on board thin canvas

i love the man who tells the truth
mouth opened like a crow on the loose
ready to abandon his home to pluck grain and kernel
but its fucking cold and my figers are getting dry

wont someone
breathe life into my wooden body and make me a real girl
wont someone lift the elephant body out of her slumber
and make her dance unknowingly?

wont someone darn my socks by candelight
or breathe playful into my ear

wont someone shock me
so my eyes startle and glisten with human
sheen?

Wont someone crush the damned cold snow against my body till the wood soaks
comb my straw hair
breathe in "clean" through his nose and
push out smiles?

Wont you be my statuesque scarecrow baby?

Wont someone stand and tell the truth
with open mouth like a crow on the loose
ready to move and leave his home?
with arms out like mother mary's wooden frame
on fire with lust
like the statue of liberty standing with tainted bronze
highlighted green?

more recognizable than ever
in the middle of the atlantic?
Wont someone give a speech?
waver between accomplishment and the brink of insanity?
Do something

Wont someone covet and cover the ages in the palm of his hand with the flick of a wrist
as if it
were all
his own
little card game?

The perfect man

William holden:
hes affectionate but doesnt want
to show it
is crazy ... an artist like vangogh: he should say: i want to paint you i want to animate you and set your soul on fire with emotion
silent cowboy like john wayne
rude like the beastie boys
crazy like peter lorre
or paranoid like bogart
alienated from society
a new born mind

he will stop at nothing is obsessed with art- creation
the perfect man has big hands
and other big things
he needs to be humble romantic
Extremely well read
needs to be funny and witty
needs to be so quick minded itll make your head spin
has to be shy around women
like jimmy corrigan
extremely expressive features so that someone always knows what hes thinking
agressive like robert deniro
He has to be protective and
extremely affectionate
he has to be forceful with sexual desire like tim roth
he has to rock this world
and yet gentle
and childlike like holden caulfeild
he has to understate everything
he has to be eclectic
has to be a broken man
something feuling him so that i can accept him and fix in my arms

I was almost going to go away on aplane and its scary
I was almost going to fly on a plane to see that bastard
I was almost going to see him.
He was not paying for the ticket got me?
not paying
and then she stopped me and the movie
picnic stopped me
hes a bumm but she loves him
but she doesnt beg him
cause shes worth his affections
i have to feel like that
not just throw myself at men
I will no longer do anything to shame myself i make an oath
i swear on my toes, my soul
my innards
on gabriel Blitzes corpse
on Aunt Jeans lifeless eye
I need to do this for me
Remember how good it felt to tell that man off terry?
to tell hm no
i wont pretend anything over the phone.
it was very nicedont ever fucking do that again girl
you are selling your soul

So its funny
passing two very happy girls
lesbians in love hands encroaching and twined
tied fastened in gloves
huddling outside my dorm
I pass and walk up stairs
watchem from my window
un repaired love
unbroken as of yet like
mine
and then a large people
complain and proclaim facets of themselves
likes dislikes and onerous ominous details
what is the prince or princes supposed to be like or enact for you you thespian
chain mailed prisner?
And what do you disclose through the loop holes of your knights honor/
What do the inhibiting wooden posts boarding you
in your bed prevent you
from pronouncing
Pronounce all preconcieved premonitions
and hopings of the feeble mind in the early morning black
for child you know not the wrath of god
as a sage once related
everyone is different
some girls be like men and some men like women and we allbe weighed on a scale twixt the place
we buy the food and where we make it
where does it occur
this ripening of love
and burgeoning of fruit
from where does the wounded fool loosen his bandage and let flow in the pond down the road
and someone said in writing:"i would lie with my shirttail up, hearing them asleep, feeling myself without touching myself, feeling the cool silence blowing upon my parts and wondering if Cash were yonder in the darkness doing it too,"
Is this what love is i ask and present the comical question?

In the evening by the moonlight you can hear those banjos strumming
through the night like liquid spindles of pools of ripples
and you think
im writing these words and tying them to this page
with sailors knots
and the dark blue bed is tough as a prison matress
and still like the sea
and all those words will fly away like birds
you ever seen that cartoon about slumberland where the little boy
gets dragged by the high man with cigar by the oversized crow with ribbons
how i wish i could have me an
oversized crow with a
hidden seashell ear: with which
to hear the atlantic ocean
how i wish every feather bent like music
its a little white room
and im sagging
at 18
its a little white box
and my engines leaking at 18
cause you kissed and are gone
cause you left me like an old dog
a dog on a card faced at the moon on the other side
and its a greeting to you when you open,
love, to tell you how i feel inside
your lips outer ediface was so soft
and peeling away like the rough skin of an orange to
spurt liquid
I carved away your skin and sliced you to your core the way
a seaman, or a very skilled cook does an apple
over the knee
that night it were just you and me
and now im sagging at 18
lagging at 18
behind the line
the surface
the dotted diagramed core
so i shall never touch your smoothed skin no more
while all the eggshell sweethearts formed in lips are crushed by my
tender feet which merely touched them
ere they dared to speak and tell me it
was
all over?

i put the white on the page
i put the white on the page
i screamed the words into your mouth just like you were a baloon
i put in my two cents and disinformed a crowded room
i explained anatomy to all the disinterested faces
and made love once to a bufoon

"Don't look at the japanese baboon the man said
they wank off to little children"
But i filled in: They wank off to little girls dresses
in crayon scratch

i had a tube
a powerful tube
a shaft of wild wooded amazement
and squeezed it
to put the white on the page
and now have nothing to do about it


some folkes place blood in viles
and watch them spin coagulated .
some men with vile blue eyes ride off on motor bikes after
praying in a shule
just to show the world they are not afraid of the introvenus tube
but i , i put the white on the page

all for fooling
all for the feeling
and had nothing to do about it after

some people
are put in a spinner
after the incubator
till they coagulate properly
in proportion to the pain
ar the amount of puke of the spinning floor

that spinning ride in rye
nearly made me puke

as i went around i felt like wall paper
the loud music pushed me to the side
and made my head turn like a dead birds
broke
eyes closed against the wall with spread out wings

my parents let me go inside otherwise i would not have ever gone.

The fingers were calloused but held on to a wine glass that was clear until someone poured wine into it. !The hands were firm and will break the glass eventually, though they are trying to hold it delicately. Merle turned slowly towards him and took out a knife.A small pocket knife , picked at his nails and stared at the strange guest. The wine bottle was comfortable in his hands,but he put it down on the mantle above the fire he'd built for himself upon nothing but a flame.

when i last kissed you
you had nice lips
and nice hands
remember how green the grass was?
remember the kite in the sky that treated us right?
wasn't there rythm wasn't it somehow
theres no rythm when i try to dance on the rug with bare feet in the living room
no rythm in my kisses
no ythm in the stories i write and show to shaking heads
The main characters are all too lame
they run away from the bad guy alway but then just die
do you always run from the bad guys?
I think i do thats why im scared
his name is death
once i saw a redhaired irish man who was asking me for a cigarette
maybe he was the devil
a black woman gave him a cigarette and he crossed the street leaving me confused in traffic