Princess in the street

**** between the sheets

I’m a tasty treat

your parents I can meet

I’ll be so sweet

My hands are dry and cracked,
And my breath smells like ***** and cigarettes.
My throat hurts,
But I’m not sick,
Although that’s what I’m going to tell my professor tomorrow
When I don’t show up for class.
***** feminist theory.
I thought it was a worthy cause
Before it was violently shoved down my throat,
Just like my fingers tonight after dinner.
I’m getting really good at this.
Everyone is suspicious, though,
And I don’t know
If I really care.
So I’ll just keep smoking my Marlboro Blacks
And dashing to the bathroom after every meal
And wondering if I’ll ever look in the mirror
And not hate the girl I see
Staring back.

Sometimes I write about you
But don't think too highly of yourself
You're just a book that's gathered dust
On the very highest shelf
Nothing is paid attention to
All the way at the top
It's neglected and ignored
Not important, I almost forgot
The space you take up
In the back of my mind
Is deteriorating by the second
You'll disappear with time
Sometimes I write about you
But it doesn't mean jack
I didn't lose you
You were something I never had
And you never had me either

Sitting packed in the back
of a semi-decrepit white Subaru
belonging to the Swedish Harpist
driven by the Romanian Drummer
with a literal car-full
of perfectly tetrised musical instruments,
including:

Four cymbals, two toms, a hi-hat, and a stool,
a Celtic double-Harp,
an electric Piano,
and two guitars
(an acoustic-electric twelve-string and an electric six-string)
with a few days' clothing
and, not knowing where we're sleeping, a sleeping bag,
all the while
devouring Matza and pumpkin seeds
(that we bought at Trader Joe's)
as we barrel moderately safely
down various back roads and Highways
in this car weighted as a truck and driven as a motorcycle
towards enigmatic San Francisco
to play a couple shows,
two days in a row:

one, at a literally underground Theatre
(in which improv comedy is, apparently, king of kings)
smack-dab 'pon the border of Union Square,
and another, for a private birthday party
typified by oh so many avid Burners.

Surely, our Psychedelic Jazz Funk-Rock
will find some empathic ears!

Y'know, last summer,
when I said I wanted
to be in a Gypsy Band,
I sure didn't see this coming:
this is pretty ******* Gypsy,
in my observational opinion.

Well,
here I am,
and I even asked for it.

For us three,
this will certainly be
an interesting few days,
down in the Bay,
on our way to play
wherever it is we may,
and all I can say
is: "Okay,
this is the stuff
books are made of,"
and, "Well,
time to live
one hell of a story!"

Without your pathetic and pitiful web of lies
I finally feel I can live my life
I'm free from the garbage that fills your mind