Gold? Go fuck yourself!

Come and pray o’er the land

Come and wish you had some “hand”

You have been scribbling for 10 years

But for all your snot and cheers

You still suck and we still see the

absolution in writing me.

Offal offers up your snout.

Scribbbbbbble on and look about

No one cares cause no one knows

Die by your own hand

not by the Academy

Burroughs not

Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky!

Wheres the what

In which we’re languishing?

wishing language set to pace, but isnt free

what seems to whisper but

has no face

to lend a motive to the persistent rails

What calls out over loudspeaker to move along

the herd is good

Keep writing close to hand

and therapy is good to have.

Not because you’ll ever have an inkling

No, no.

but because

well, Time it’s got this thing

You have to keep moving as it blankets everything

and we try so hard to nebulize the scalding torch

that is holding on to us

and down seems up and left because

it realized it other half would neer appear

So it coughed and sung and took a Wellbutrin

Now down is up the well we dug.

And complacency rolls on my tongue.

Fight to puke but it is snuggly

saintly, toothily, a part of me

Man from nothingness

yet nothingness peeks beneath Time’s lee and now I’ve got to take a breath and pee

Time’s precious little ironies

Have fucked up your eyes and memory....