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there were junkies drowning in my children's water fountain the night the dragonflies revolted for the queen and the business was terrible for everyone else involved in the makeshift manufacturing of lightbulb repellent, you ought to know the difference between a light scented sheet and a sabertooth ache from the size of the bullet, read the instructions and you'll know you were never meant for the job in the first place, at least that's what she said to me when I stole the liquor from behind the bar, i could have slugged the whole town with that bottle of jack but it was half water and the ice had black soot particles frozen in it, i wish i could have wretched my disappointment all over that shit-town floor and i would have danced in their shrieks because, after all, what is a good pair of dancing shoes and a gallon of kerosene good for if you can't use either of them on a boring sunday night, the mantra of the month preaches it's peaches to all those who fall short, every single lazy schlup who carries his weight by the ounces and finds his tune clogged in the vomit filled bathroom sink, we know what you mean, you don't have to pain a picasso every goddam time you want attention, that what she said anyway, she says a lot of shit when she's horny and when she loses her sense of self, but times she's the truest are when she's pulling out her hair on the train and selling it to strangers for a kiss or for some kind grandiose drama she's dreaming up, i know the boys back home, they love the feminine squeals and sneakers on the bed at 7am for a breakfast without breaking any eggs only rubbing them 'til they crack, you know the feeling, you've had it writing in your gut since wednesday and it won't leave as long as you got that stupid smile on your face. hear it? it's crawling into your past.

Toilet words

review conundrum kisses, it's her bridal shower tomorrow but nobody gives an orange meringue what she wears or who she marries because it was over the second she opened her eyes, the guitar strings play something spanish, something about dawn-tinted cobblestone streets with too much wine, woozy next to the stone, thinking of jumping in the river to prove it is not made of glass but we've all had those feelings of death creep in our throats, the stiffness of melancholy in our knuckles, we can't crack every nut that they throw at us, the buckets are full and we're over it, over it like a tuesday massacre, like a button-up fly police station deranged waitress or something maniacal and boisterous, another whiskey on top of the gin and then again with the tonic bath ritual. Not enough tea in this joint to keep my nerves cold and blue, uninflammed and korsakoffing by way back to last years chicken fights and kfc dinners. garbage. such complete and utter verbal, linguisitic garbage here and i'm spewing like the queen just tried ethiopian sloth chutney, heads up, here it comes again.