famished with tremors on a freezing tile floor in a carved out high rise with trifling décor. the self-indulgent hero gets humbled and washed ashore. then eaten for breakfast by rigid gods of love and war. he digests and screams from the fire in their bellies beside like-minded souls,” WE CRUMBLING LIKE COOKIES!!!” any semblance of passion has now been used by the appetites of giants, then disposed of in their refuse. make moves, make moves, make moves, make. make moves before they eat you and you lose. human failure is a peculiar delicacy for all these unseen forces that just keep fucking with me. beings i’ve granted passage and then guaranteed a place in my mind so i could make excuses and reject responsibility. make moves, make moves, make moves, make. make moves before you shoot yourself and lose. why do i lie to myself? and say that it’s something else? yiddy-yi, yiddy-yo. yiddy-yi, yiddy-yo, yiddy-yi, yiddy-yo. inwardly, i’ve thrown in the towel. then taken a drag of my pet hate, slumped back and scowled at the holes in the ceiling, depressions shaped by real cool apathetic motherfuckers sent forth from cocaine and trade school. engage the constipation, the dehydration of your lifeblood, the mania for something good, and knockout the deviation, your gravitation, towards nations of quitters who use up heavy hitters.

as hissy fits filter through my placid frame of mind and the obligation to confrontation becomes revived, for all these lowlifes who hurt my shit and all of this hurt that makes me sick, and oh my god, the penalty for f***ing me, a friend in need, is making fire the effigy, a dumber, sicker, fragile breed until i fucking burst and kick your ass when a small chance steps out of class and erupts from the grimness of bad intentions into a dimly lit room to give a brutal education to the unjust antagonists fucking up my script, to the childhood creeps who punched me in my dick. i swear i’m gonna roar and bust a lo*d that will envelope all of the natural world as we know it. remember all the times i just relaxed and heard painfully from one room over you penetrating the a** of the glimmers of hope i just couldn’t hold on to. look how things just stack up. now this jacked pu**y’s had enough so i’m taking off both gloves and transporting your stupid face ten feet behind you in a puddle of mud after i smash my fist into your ugly mug and then some dogs are gonna piss on it as the absence of face devours your spirit. you make me mad... you always make me mad. but i’ll get over it... and not do a damn thing.

but what if i care about something more than other somethings, like air and black girls? if i were to ever lose it, well, it’d be no secret, i’d go to perdition to find her. i can’t just keep quiet and let it lose brightness, let it grow dimmer, and then fade. so i’ll put belief in a pistol and attend misery’s funeral who has died at my gallant hand. well, i, i'm gonna love you from a muggy backseat on the world’s greatest street and we’ll, we’ll fall asleep, one bad bitch in my arms, head resting on heartbeats. lovin’ r*w, being crude, being punk, heartsick saps with tattoos. falling hard, concerning oneself and fond regards, being rash, a big wet kiss for the poor white trash who feels hungover coming to right beside her, dumbstruck but a happy fucking dude. i’m preparing a crusade, wads of disorder and huge hand grenades filled with a tendency to strangle the pricks that would choose to wound you. i'll make them all ghosts where they stand. aimless, vagrant spooks and no longer man when they turn me into the very thing that I swore I’d never be when unkind cuts made me detached like the imitation badass i was born to play on a tv show about all the good ways to act young, have fun, drink some shit and smoke blunts amongst spicy, priceless situations and our coming of age temptations perpetrated by tons of s*x...

i’ve aroused this sight too many times before. girl walks out and i do not cry out for her to survive a few more nights with me. i stand there waiting, loaded, lucidly. oh, when i kissed her from the divinity of a garage or entwined in a closet at a wedding, i think it’s her moms. lakeside and hesitant, the place she pioneered lust. watching Children of the Corn, the first time i had guts. where have they gone? you make all gone. i got callous,” fuck it,” rigged like the soulless. uninspired feelings and no real incentive for this. girl is the marvel, makes me lose my marbles. makes me daisy chain my nuts to tender, bitchy witch hunts. my love is pronto Squanto like misinformed tornados. pull apart the anima upon erotic, filthy floor shows. i am not the hater nor the avenging player but when “heartfelt” takes a dive, it doesn’t catch me by surprise. i see you in the quad with a guy who looks like me and babe, you must be blind ‘cos you can’t see that i probably would come back. plus, that herb is fucking whack. i’m a big fat dope sack with a man-root stirring heart attacks. i’m contradicting myself. let me take off my belt. juanita sucks... i say,” juanita sucks.” juanita sucks... i say,” juanita sucks.” but i wouldn’t mind… if juanita stayed. i think that’d be fine. i’m lying defined by hedonistic land mines. “hello, pleased to meet you. most folks call me the fucking punch line.” oh, juanita!

enter stage right. context: somewhere at night. anyway, she’s in sight and by design, i’m uptight (but don't do that) i can’t just discipline what forges my complexion. (that just sounds weak) she’ll be savvy to all my goddamn imperfections. (she doesn't know you) her capacity to smell my pettiness has been honed. (what does that mean?) alright, cue the rhythm section, smell my breath, and take my phone. (yo! drum and bass) let’s fudge together our infernal regions! i debut my joke about jews but some lush bitches illegibly shout a tune, keeping the punch line from even kind of breaking through into her awareness of my wittiness misconstrued as some unwarranted confession of a jewish heritage that isn’t my own. well, I can’t talk to women. shit, I thought you were supposed to drink cologne. tell me how to be the epitome of the artificial playboy who will never really enjoy the marrow of your being or anything you find freeing. the synthetic lady-killer who calls his d**k “god’s driller”. unloads it in your face, returning to his state of grace. or the plastic rad kid, the one who does what dad did. “i’m a product of my environment. that’s why i put weird drugs in your drink.” to the unnatural phonies who get turned up with their cronies. then beat the fuck from beauty, i’m just a lover, not a pu**y.

so can i see you girl, tonight? can you make me scream tonight? can i be your slave tonight? can you use me up tonight? i’ll pick you up at 8, i’ll pick you up, i’ll pick you up, up, up, up. my pupils dilate, i’m losing weight, i get irate and bump them into my deranged fucking snout. owww... la-la-la, la-la-la-la... the rays of a hungry sunup gashes the sky like lighthouses fracturing my delirious high. i’m perpetual, i’m static, the most cheerless guy, fixed on a roof, my intentions just seem misapplied. fingerprints on my shirt, i wish i could fucking sniff them. wanna go into a coma but my body won’t listen. wanna mislead the girl i rolled with in four cheap motels so her body can save me as the headaches swell. holy hell! i’m getting torn up by melancholia’s monstrous, gloomy c**k. my unsound mind is flipping out and this drowsy trance is no longer profound. it’s bull... shit. i’ll pick you up. we’ll get the stuff. we’ll use it up. this shit is nuts. i’ll pick you up...

we’ll see the requiem that’s rambling on and on for all our pals who’ve gone the path of decomposition. and it smells to high heaven, a place we’ve never went but one day, we’ll waft up there when our shits in total disrepair. we won’t know anyone. they’ll all be different. but i’ll be like you, apathy takes two. the burial was blue in relation to the loss of the light of our lives, an objection as to who survives. and tend to my heart, okay? make sure it doesn’t break ‘cos i can’t just pump these brakes, there may be some moves to make. but now I’m getting bored, steps forward must go ignored and i’m not going slow, there will be a time to grow. "now baby, is that true? now baby, is that true? stumbling is what you do. you ain’t ever gonna break on through. you hesitating. the malefactor is escaping, so throw the book at that motherfucker or pull the goddamn trigger, you infant." the escaped con is in my sights, the malicious waste who killed my wife. i nailed his ass twenty years ago, now that getting even is starting to show but he doesn’t know that my counterblow, my fucking Van Gogh is sown in his soul that shitty hole, my baby unborn is unrecognizable. but i stole two useful decades, time he would spend killing more babes and interchanged it with bad dicks and big shivs. i made his existence a deflowered abyss. this is his requiem...

i was begging,” can you let me out?”` from the confines of a seemingly cozy house. but now it’s masked with insult and blood rushing from the throat of their youngest son. i concoct schemes of liberation due to my unbecoming mutation into an epidemic, a fumbling piece of shit, and i’d like to spare them the trouble of raising it but i don’t really have a home. well, there is this place though its kinda prone to scratching and smashing my self worth. once my bedroom, now a brain-dead pervert. so i get in the habit of spaced-out relaxation and becoming fat and drunk and happy with the loafing situation. the joy of pleasantly having zero direction, the sort of idleness that is cooked to perfection. i get turned on by wide-open spaces, the privilege to move, the headroom erases. climbing the walls of a handmade house of correction and i sense that this could be swaggers resurrection. maybe we can go to the City with a Fighting Chance beside gypsies widowed by a lead singers romance who made tender melodies from sheer monstrosity but then lost her voice and her immortality. but now it is wide open. come with me. i think i’m single again. i was far away but now I’ve reexamined who i was, the shit i took for granted. i am now ready, willing and able to bust the sloth through a motherfucking table. and stand over its rickety, aged body, slamming my foot into the accused party.

“what is this riot for?” i think to myself as fans incite grace across the stage. your hand in his. i’m 4th Row minding someone who has changed. you look at him like you did at me. is he aware that I watch from my seat ‘cos honestly, this ain’t okay. i’m just sitting, handcuffed in a chair, buttoned up and fenced in by all your friends who don’t know it fucking hurts to watch you be consumed by someone who thinks that he’s yours. but you’re mine and this is perdition. wait, now his hand is stroking yours... i hate the way you dance with him... with him... why won’t you dance with me? why?

pop that fucking booty like the whole world say you s’posed to. set it on my d**k because I know you fucking want to. move it up and down till it starts going to my head that every bad bitch looking wants to get her pu**y fed by white sin, this kid, the motherfucking kingpin. girl is getting tougher on my shit, i’m breaking her in, till the walls cave in, till her house falls down. till we’re lying in the rubble, bodies naked on the ground. she died happy. “what’s that?” she weren’t scared, mark my motherfucking words,” she died happy.” “that so?” everyone can see it, sitting pretty, grinning blood-soaked. but now i feel hatred spouting from the dumb fuck who’s been staring at you for an artless amount of time, his patience is running dry. he puts on his depraved disguise, snide but bold, riches are implied. the second self of my cowardice. the liberator of a little bitch. my criminal phantom limb dismounts a majestic dolphin and inquires with intention,” where are your false expectations?” i cast a look at a divine being, she makes a living babysitting and always bastardizing the retarded flame undying. he sets in motion a strike. hawklike, charming, business ignites. she might be toppling fast. the front has now been surpassed. “well, i don’t know if i can hang out after the show,” and she starts strolling away so he starts annunciating his prowess and reputation, both kind of nonexistent. he’s never been in the spotlight, maybe just once or twice, small but inspired crowds. “oooh-la-la, did you say you opened for atlas sound?” “oh yeah, i believe i did,” i talk good and am erect on solid ground ‘cos tonight is proving to be fearless and the other way around. i’m upsetting the hang-ups with fetching, hunky animal sounds. bwa-ha, ha-ha, ha-ha, ha... ("pop that booty" refrain)

‘cos i see you hustling down the street, you could never be discreet and that is a dead end, so you’re gonna have to turn around and come back through my part of town and naturally descend into second nature, our achilles heel, a rookie culture of futile feels from tragic and tireless boys and girls who hunt for love on the never ending stretch of road where i just shot your boyfriend. now i realize that murders rude as i gaze at an exit wound, wielding a smoking gun that i probably should go get rid of but i am the chimera and it looks like i spit mad fire born from self-interest, the creature egotistical and blistered. i see you up on the horizon, the homecoming is unsurprising. don’t defend that corpse. she begins getting closer to me and i can feel the temperature rising. the girls up in smoke. i haul ass to meet her halfway, defying the middle of the fray shrouded by riots. aliens from the weeds move in, they’re here to shame salvation today. “but you shot her boyfriend!” “that’s not important.” “its sorta vital.” “i’m fighting for the world fucking title ‘cos if i lose this, that’ll be it. i’ll get piss drunk and reminisce about the gilded age, a woman who just got engaged, my life will get devastated by inhumane tidal waves... washing me away.” found drowned yesterday. i wonder what he’d say from his watery grave, i wonder if he prayed," let her find me, find me in the fray"? so i’ll be chimera, your running mascara. i’ll start being a dick, the ultimate conjuring trick. i’ll be chimera.

but my ego is a high school bomb threat, fiction. i just wanna stay at home and stand around with dereliction. criminal negligence, little angel with two parents but he hasn’t learned shit, a world-weary tradition. i’m not gonna blow it up. i just wanted to sleep and have dreams about bare-skinned girls soaring over my house, i get scooped up, they show me heaven, unadorned beauty in their curves. they start taking off my clothes, my drive goes wild. but then i ascend and their kindness ends. i’m the onliest watching porn again. the night she cleared out, i was catching my breath, charging that sweet bitch with my ego death. i’m self-conscious and my hunger’s low but i’ll eat six cheeseburgers with root beer floats and a fistful of transparent rejection! EGO DEATH! it’s pulling in our driveway, shit. meal plans, food stamps, bittersweet starvation cramps. parking tickets, hissy fits and non-moving violation champs. paycheck, microscopic, misspend it on weird philanthropic endeavors to involuntarily nourish the fiends, the illness, the chronic, the demonic, the vile, the smother, the mundane seldom lover who makes you bend over backwards, leaving no stone unturned for a chance at some glassy-eyed articulation of romance! i’ll try to change... but ego will stay the same. ego… EGO DEATH!

there we are, stoned in the kitchen. a time to dishonor herself ‘cos he’s gone away, never to be seen again. a crime of passion and misguided actions always result in my ass getting l**d. i'm not that proud when she is robotic, repeating herself in hopes that he slips from her memory but the battle’s uphill ‘cos I do not feel like a man she could love and i get disposed of as these arms fall flat when she arrives at the bulletproof decision that no one can replace him. and i know that the mood has changed and i feel my life ain’t the same. i can’t labor like i could and i know that that maybe i should. we turned it on. our bodies tempt fortune. i touch you, night and day. where men of mettle go l**p, i feel our love fleeting and i know it stings. and i believe that if we just don’t admit we failed, we would never, ever die, you know? it's too late, i tried. instinct like a robot…