well, you know I'm a doomster, Lady.
a chicken with priorities shaky.
flap my wings like an angel
if you could buy them dead at a grocery store,
packed naked and shaved,
honey glazed for the carnivore.
there's no sinking feeling, Lady.
i feel sort of festive lately,
and I know how I feel
in a soul so piecemeal
can be so lumbering.
it's the Achilles Heel
of a limp dick
on a potter's wheel,
of a tall drink
that replaced my meals.
canned innovation
late at night in a gas station
only made my doom stronger
whereas you make me conjure
up a thing called "integrity".
i wanna glitter like a Kennedy.
i wanna find the Essence of Doom
and give it a lobotomy,
tie it up in the basement
of my psyche, twenty stories