"And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass."
hitherto,
i've seen no
specialness
in my generation.
nor in myself.
i pity
the lineage,
and those who
will see the
new stars.
flames old,
and knotted tight
in the burning sky.
for they will
have nothing
to offer.
we might
as well
be scarecrows,
propped up,
a sturdy stick
firmly stuck
up our ass,
and up to
our knees
in shit,
our beautiful,
skin-tight jeans
covered in shit,
doing a job
we don't even
know we're
doing.
trying desperately
with music
and clothes
and ideas
and attitudes
and poetry
and loves
and hates
to arouse
whims
of specialness.
a specialness that
is so rare
you have more chance
shitting pure
24 carat gold.
the new stars
looking upon
us
with disdain
and disappointment:
our dull,
empty,
lifetime.
i had tremendous trouble
killing a spider
last night.
it hung there over
my bed like a terrible
a cursed picture.
i wanted to put it
in a glass and
throw it out the window.
(you know humanely)
but i couldn't,
i was terrified:
the fear gripped me;
i couldn't do it,
i was frozen there:
a statue holding a shoe.
i bit my lip... moaned...
and crushed
that motherfucker.
i didn't feel
too great
afterwards;
but i slept
like a good
boy should,
like a cowardly
little boy,
i slept
a coward, trigger-
happy with the
hand of god.
shame
doused my eyes
and my brain.
but
i
slept.
that's right
you motherfucker,
i slept.
