don't feel sorry for me.
I am a competent,
satisfied human being.

be sorry for the others
who
fidget
complain

who
constantly
rearrange their
lives
like
furniture.

juggling mates
and
attitudes

their
confusion is
constant

and it will
touch
whoever they
deal with.

beware of them:
one of their
key words is
"love."

and beware those who
only take
instructions from their
God

for they have
failed completely to live their own
lives.

don't feel sorry for me
because I am alone

for even
at the most terrible
moments
humor
is my
companion.

I am a dog walking
backwards

I am a broken
banjo

I am a telephone wire
strung up in
Toledo, Ohio

I am a man
eating a meal
this night
in the month of
September.

put your sympathy
aside.
they say
water held up
Christ:
to come
through
you better be
nearly as
lucky.

I wanted that angel
to marry me,
that fallen angel,
soft sinister touch,
I wanted it bad,
wanted it enough,
but now... it's still so tempting,
that fallen angel,
I ***** with thee.

Crisis.

Sue sinful mother,
hate the sin not the sinner,
Jesus bring me up to Eos, the blessed
soul-god of thy confession:
icaremydaughter in burgundy.
Osaphosis, sting! bleed! death! heat!
Heat death? Honey, you just gotta
hold that ****** till he die already.

****! I was broke like James Nemas
on crack, liquor, apple jacks.
**** this nation under god,
a duck swan up and ****** her ****.
A fool is red and silver,
snakey eyes and hands of filth.
Bless thy precious hands of filth.

****, it’s not funny...
is it ever going to be?

My soul's a wound,
I won't be sad for very long,
isn't that sad?
Nothing I do is sacred.

I sleep with dead people,
they like to stuck the blood from
my body, but that's okay.
They need life.
I sit with invalids,
we'll just be sick together.

Out of order.

Hate is a lover,
if you take that away
then I'd be cold.
I need the warm blood
of my affliction
to cover me, comfort me,
so I won't be so exposed.

Pray for me,
but God may not exist;
It's okay,
we'll try anyway...

Theatrics, that is
all a girl like me
needs. Theatrics.

Come to me,
bright and morning star,
Mother, Venus,
pray for your daughter.

I'm in rhinestones
fixed against my black dress
of whoredom--boredom!

Who do you work for?
The Lord of the Grand Display,
Theater! Baby, blue fire!

I'm not sure if I live in
an imaginary world,
I don't know who
I am anymore.
Is God ego?

Creation
in mourning.

Pressure, ha ha ha ha,
what is happening?
Is this enough or surplus?

I'm losing feeling,
floating to paradise
where the clouds are like empty.

When I feel high
I feel low
and then it's just...
nothing.

"What happens in your world?"
I ask my ill soul,
"Are you ill?"
Who needs to know?

Ha ha ha ha...