Carved iguanas,
moon drops,
they picked them out of the nylon. fuzzy rabbits.
slime crust gathered around edges
links were made.
it didn't really matter.
like ralph nader winning the election
we cast our ballots for shame
tuckered and indecisive
spitting on the ballot slot.
At nine pm there was another bell,
louder this time, it sounded in the small of her conundrum.
we lost ourselves in a timeless battle
snares rattling out ricochets in the swathes of gun fight
knocked out, my comrade had blood running from his jaw
his eyes were half shut, he sputtered out this:
"Not to be named, not to be forgotten,
not heavens door, not hell,
not caribean, not london,
no, no, no, not that path,
this one"
Caring about it was the last thing we could do,
I got lost in so many saturdays,
so many sundays under the rug,
stoned on the couch, we giggled
but there's nothing to laugh about
crime rate
war
customs officials with heavy machine guns
mowing the lawn
Marble stair cases
A crap load of stars
Bottles of water, in glass
Women in peacock
Velvet chairs
A wide array of hors d' oeuvres
And tonights entertainment is:
Countache, scrumple, migraine
Plums hanging from a vine
Marked for destruction
unappreciated
lost
courtship
Clang Clang Clang
The bell sounds again, louder, softer, clumsier
no limit to what we can do.
My satiable dogma lost its zoning permit
cluttered with nonsense to a boiling point
mischief rascal intentions
covered in it, I mean
absolutely, fucking, covered in it
dude, there's no getting out of this one
you're in it for the long haul
you've never been in it for the short one
cling to your guns,
nix incompetence, take what you're given
and shine right through them.
There ain't no stopping
and there ain't no turning back in this world
panoramic still shots cant capture
the world wide fucking magnitude
of slam dunk paparazzi shell fish
tell you how many drams I downed
playing a part,
playing a fucking part
dragging myself across the floor
licking the garbage
wearing the trash bag as my tuxedo
and one of those things from under the cap of a bottle as the ring,
we made it official
puking terribly onto all sweaters, young and old
cursing at little kids
not a pretty picture.
And then it dawned on me.
There's not a cent in Salem
or a Coin in Compton
that can end this witch hunt wisely
going at eighty with no brakes
no shortage of gas
and a foot made of iron
I double and triple my speed
and settle down for it.
I'm losing my feathers for a shindig
this isn't nice.
But neither is she.
Together we were something,
I knocked on a door I couldn't open
and didn't want to open
and no kids came running out to greet me
and I'm ok with that
But to stand at the threshold
furiously rapping at the uncertain
rain or shine, trying to deliver a package
you start to realize
nothing is getting signed for
and you've only yourself to blame
They like to tell us that there will come a time
when we get older
when things will snap and gel
I like that Idea,
don't you?
So it's in my head that if I keep banging
and shelling the shit out of deserts
one day I get a house and car and wife and life
that's good enough
but not too good,
but not to be fucked with
and when the goonies come to rape the wife
and kill the kids
and burn the house down
I'll be the one motherfucker who thought to buy a revolver
and I'll come out blasting
and you'll know once and for all
that fucking with me
is a really really really bad idea
standing there in bloody triumph,
with the matted scalp of a demon
clutched in terrifying hand
I'll open fire on the news cameras
the spectators
the ones I loved the most
and I'll raise my smoldering cannon
point the barrel at my sweaty
throbbing
veiny
cabeza
and unleash the hellish ghost
that would swang in the pulse
of every half drunk puzzled kid
flicking a cherried cigarette onto wet pavement.