| Camp Songs From the upcoming, tentatively titled novella, "No Shit, Sherlock." For those of you who know me, just a bunch of stuff written in haste (stream of consciousness) during that summer, in no particular order. I thought these were very clever. Things have changed... Is one event going to have to do for the rest of the summer? "Fuck off," The all-time most over-used expression. How do you say it without saying it? Oh, your sister rides bicycles without seats. Possession. You'll get it seven times over if you even think of messing with my demon. Fruit flies... buzz, buzz, buzz, just a little fuzz, just because... Narrow-minded little twit, you're aware you're full of shit and it's your highest enjoyment. ...I like them because they're vicious and get in everyone's face with forked tongues and eyes that glow in the dark. Why's it so important especially when it's meaningless? So stick my lip to the bottom of my nose. It'll make me shiver in a field. Names...ones from the only other moment in life-- they're a crowd, they yell 'no' along with the rest of the world. Acting, pretending, being didactic along with the other English-majoring intellectual fags, all for the sake of my favorite subject. But the chase is more fun. Body parts will soon be falling off, please fasten your seat belt. Ever French a a Coke bottle & get your tongue caught? I think you're a little old for humping chairs. Does the naked light bulb hanging from my ceiling feel embarrassed? Every so often moldy pudding boils. Crash and burn, Atlantic Mountain mud, and horse shit. Oh slobber and gag, and hang off you "Sunshine." Where are you, my little pet peeve? Are you laughing at me or at me? Bang bang bang on the boardwalk. I wish I could run through that early morning mist. What is it about those damn full-faced Wartburg women. The specialty of nothingness. Gizmo and the baker with one foot in the firepit. The inside of my skull--a cavern where my name echoes back and forth in other people's voices. Think about us riding wild horses...I am. Box of cereal and a skull of the windowsill. Observations are not that profound, but then a lot of people don't have eyes. Wear shades and don't turn your head and you can stare at anything you want. It's about time for a little joy juice. What kind of petal do you use with that Gibson or does your insanity make it sound like that? Cripple switchblade. It's the one stickin' straight up. Drain the lizard out the window at 65 m.p.h. Hey, I'm gonna puke on you! Bring me a bucket. Gee whiz! No I don't have to right now. Don't worry honey, I went slumming too. Putting up with an irritating someone is like having toothpicks jammed under your skin, holding it up in thousands of tiny tents. It's not who you are, it's who you're not. And then the hanging lamb said, "Hey, " and messed up everyone's life. We can't even shit without feeling guilty. |
| Fuzzy green splotch on the wall. Someone had some mighty fluorescent snot. I don't need instructions to breathe most days. Campfire, hot and high, roaring. Watch it die and stoke it up again. The rage, the unwanted quietness. Give me a drink; a Screaming Orgasm or a Sloe Screw Against the Wall will do. Nervous stomach, but one word spelled relief. Thank you, fang woman. The phenomena of the the hairy soap. Music that puts your body into the ancient time. American flag-lined streets of a S.D. podunk. Your whole family lined up in front of their toys, worshipping them and whacking themselves. Guts splattered on a big-city sidewalk isn't what the world should be. Infection up your nose. Tobasco up your butt. Are you salty? No? 'You should see some of the girls I've had.' A horse could knock this place over but it's security. Spray me with your hose, shake sweat all over me. Hanging from the rafters, one batty cook. Brain death is living at it's highest. Snarl. Ugliest (scariest) is most beautiful, perfect. A couple of little twits with their legs tied down whine. Rush of power that'll eat out your guts. Twisted love rises from the dead heap. If you can't quite see red, see pink. But green is always green. It's just those damn horses again, so don't have a cow. Out here in our meadow in the woods, thrown into a human stew, everything slides in & out of focus at a dizzying rate. The spice of life will lose it's flavor soon enough and then the jolt will come from elsewhere. Instant replay rarely happens 'cause we have no electricity. Just drink your swill and shut up. Sinking into boringness, ready to chew toenails. Death-sleep weighted limbs foreign breath puffing lungs while thoat closes. The only thought is escape. Smoking and eating, watching and talking. Maybe the fumes will help me barf up a yellow, slimy lung. There's a book-long paragraph stuck in my head, at the end of my pen. How long before the discovery of the six? I'll wait here forever before I give in. Go nail a doughnut. The new desert: Nose crisp. Pick your neighbors (nose). We haven't come that far from our wild animal days. We can still feel it when we're being looked at. Instinct remains. Is silence deadly or comforting? Maybe it's comforting to be dead. Your eyes sting from cooking over wood smoke, squished further than ever into your face. Isn't that sweet? I'm a druggie who doesn't use drugs, dried out and wet at the same time. But hey, I don't have a problem. I'm perfectly normal, which is, of course, my problem. When your mind cons you into thinking someone is someone entirly different, you skip one heartbeat And know you're still carrying too much. |
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