CampSongs2

Arrgh! Me name's the butt pirate!
I just hate playing all the little mind games & shit.
What do I mean? Never mind.
Walk away from the merry cherriness,
hands that cut into victim's sides,
fatty dimpled hams against sinew.
I turn my back on that pigpen and spit.
Tonight it'll sing me into a nightmare.
Lip curls in ugly snarl;
you really should brush your teeth once in a while.
Take a bath in a cereal bowl
white turning grey--
How long till it rots off?
Yup, dead skin tastes pretty good.
Life in the wind tunnel it is.
Watch those airborn liquids.
Inarticulate to the point where
every other word is 'fuck.'

Skin peels back from her face
revealing a double row of canines.
They jut foward like an ape's,
meeting at an angle
that would make a skater proud.
My dear, I do believe
you have a mushroom growing out of your forehead.
Always you look sad, or like
there'll be a rainstorm in the next ten seconds.
You wear your cheekbones for lower eyelids.
I hope you short out your blow dryer.
You have nothing to say but the old song & dance.
Are you proud of being unable to control yourself,
you big baby?

Bombarded from two sides...
It feels much more satisfying
to make hideous faces and contortions
in front of someone else.
Blah, blah, blah...
The past--well fuck it!
Nostrils flared to quarter-size.
Adrenaline fire; fly through the air.
Piss on the whole world.
Will it care?
Always some damn thing in the way
that someone will dig up from the moldy past.
I'll voluntarily crack my own jaw
to keep my trap shut.
Roped into doing the girl thing anyway.
I hate to think I imitate the
most sickening actions of human life--
Interrupt the tangent for some fine pleasantries.
Oh yeah, dude? My name is...

Been a long time since I kissed a camel.
Spitting venom--the ultimate talent.
Sucks having to rely on the stale to remain fresh.

Brain cells dripping through a sieve, to where?
You're doomed to ooze the rest of your time, child.
Not a counselor, not quite doing God's work.
I'm shallow and you're shallow
except when you're deep.
There's a glass film in the backs of your eyes.
Do mine burn like the fires of hell?
Get the slimy shit, the soap, or cooking oil.
I'll goop it up but it's your job to explode.
Vertigo, like a strobe light.
What about the Word are you going to spread, exactly?
What are the fine shades between purity & obscenity?
Submit to one side or the other,
and the rejected choice still doesn't go away.
Did Jesus ever have a wet dream?
Did he go to the bathroom, get sick,
or ever own anything he didn't need?
We're so human that few of us could have
much of an inventory taken of our spiritual side.
To figure out a theme you've got to
drain off all the sauce.
Most people couldn't see the knife in the paneling
or the bodies in the clouds
even if they became literal.
Push, pull
attract, repel
draw, erase
avoid, come on
Talk in tongues of fire and slay me in the Spirit.
Can it be done in silence?
Out here the wind will blow dirt
into the cracks between your teeth.

If there's a train comin'
rumblin' down the track,
jump in front of it.
If you see a mad dog,
go bite it.
If a leper stumbles your way,
be the first to kiss it.
If somewhere in the darkness
there's a monster of unknown deadliness,
face it.
If someone hands you a needle,
shoot it into your own veins.
If you come upon a lit fire,
step into it.
If someone gives you the opportunity
to sever your arms, legs, or other things,
self-impalement or poison,
take it.
If you come to a cliff,
jump.
If you could possibly humiliate yourself
in front of a crowd,
do it.
If you could empty yourself of yourself,
do that, too.
We're waiting.

Everything is new
expanding in reality.
All the old stuff
I know in my head
is moving in again.
It's a surprise,
like years ago when
I didn't expect it;
like being a camper again,
naive but more open.
Fires, food, these people,
closeness and tension.
Finally doing something
for the right reason.
Even if it was through me,
the work was done.

Hand over hand,
hand held down,
finger and toe holds on rocks.
Flesh dripping off the bones of your face.
Careful walking around everyone;
don't touch--that's my personal space you're in.
Gregarious to the point of being a hermit.
It's not exactly job stress, boss.
The red light went off in the pit,
fence sprang up around the eyes,
ready for instant denial.
Fire dude,
little lapine type in the grass.
Did you learn anything?
I refuse to look and you stare.
Shadows on shoulders, sun-dappled.
Every piece of ground has a meaning.
"This is where..."
Skin ripples under pulsebeat.

I wanna shit out a shitload of shit,
black and blue hash marks slashing the white,
until the page is as bruised as me.
Unfortunately, the more you want it,
the less you can do it,
this banned artform.
And it's funny, well, not exactly, but yes,
how you can dwell on one thing,
and once you a achieve it, either
everything you did to get there becomes obsolete,
or it doesn't matter anymore and becomes a burden.
So, we've got another flower child on our hands.
Is all the blablabla true, then?
Or was all the wheezing and puking
to prove a pointless point pointless?
Well, I guess I'll do the opposite and sit down
till I can't take it and spew.
If God calls you to be a doormat,
then be a fucking doormat.
Fling me up into that endless night sky,
where everything is the same as it always has been
from the day God created it
and the day I got the list.
Let me drown in the always changing narrow depths.
Sink into the window. Crawl into a shell,
curl up into a tight little ball and die.

con't...