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Snake Eat Own Tail

What makes us different is dissatisfaction; a need for tires which feel like leather and smoke like a Cuban. We need big breasts, we are never satisfied with big breasts. Dissatisfaction is the single defining driving factor in everything.

This guy sets down his beer as if he was setting down the weight of the world, like a farmer wiping sweat from his brow, and says, "I loved her so fucking much." My mental eyes roll.

Then, I catch myself.

Has, at last, the stagnant milk of the dispassionate many corrupted my true and noble purpose? I catch myself. She was a crazy bitch; the kind of female likened to jungle kitties with thoughts like claws tearing down the wallpaper. The kind of woman that holds a certain gravity for us poets. It is not their beauty it is their quirks; It is some small madness within them which we pompously believe we understand. And they are more intelligent than we could ever imagine, they will make you cry blood and poetry. They will make you more productive and crazy than you've ever been. Somehow, no matter what a crazy bitch you know she is, you will be forever affected with a hope: that understanding might be possible. You cannot survive too many of these, but will always be wiling to try again.

Why did it matter more in high school? How did life peak-out then? I am looking at this man now; this man who set down his beer. He is looking at some big-haired blonde's ass. I slide my half-glass of Guiness down and hit the street. Man, what a hot night. A heat that makes us too tired for love, we just need to get cooled. What a hot night. Listen, I'm frustrated, I'm kicking pebbles. In need of a number tonight. Been let down. And I resent the crazy bitches who broke my heart and made me ugly for I was once quite a sweet little boy. And still am, if they'd let me.

We do not imagine they are so intelligent. Not that cunning of cunning murdereffiecient intelligence. We never expect it. If I am rambling it is only my denial.

I'm fucking lonely, okay? Can you dig? Am I still a man? Is it hot in here?

Okay it was me. It was me setting that drink down. You got me now I die?

Can you get ladies with this gig? Huh? Does writing turn on the Transcendental Hipshaker? A decade ago, yes. Yes, a decade ago you could go all the way with a poem. Then we did not have such nice cars. Have you seen these cars? These automobile hovercrafts shining sleek and invincible in the night? I would, I mean, if I were a modern woman; I would like that too.

Of course I am lonely only out of egocentricity. If I didn't think I had so damn much to offer I wouldn't be so damn eager to leap in the sack and spill it. Well, okay there's that too. The lovin':


Most of all let this
nose: Josephine Baker
lips: Nina Simone
ass: summer plum
breasts: winter pears
and what what sigh what eyes: brown and belonging to savannah.

This woman across the street let her stop

getting smaller and then gone. Sigh. And again and again; dissatisfaction. Drives us. I rip loose, tear at my baby-blue pinstripe shirt, and howl. When I am done with my child-fit I see my little white buttons laying there, on the sidewalk. Man, I gotta get my shit straight.

Copper drives by, does his slow-down game. I see myself through his eyes and I transmit hate through my eyes, into his. I straighten my spine, spread the shoulders, I am the Hulk. C'mon, step out of your car, tell me what you see, pig. Please step out of the vehicle and lay dead in the street. Copper cruises onwards, lucky him. Need to stop embracing my mentality, things are getting serious. And, frankly, it's not worth it.

Screw these chicks. Fuck that dream. Bring on the token fat girl with the heart of gold. I need a plate of flapjacks dripping with butter and maple syrup and a cool glass of milk fresh from the utter. Afterwards, a cigarette. Hunger, get away from me, get the fuck away. Should stay away from the juice, makes me think too damn much. You know where that leads.

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