this is the place where pigeons play their games
untroubled by the large ungainly folk
who never have been seen to get the joke

birds **** on heroes and on noble dames
that's not a fact that we want to evoke
this is the place where pigeons play their games

here where our leaders make their sordid claims
upon our hearts and liars go for broke
old beggars note again the stinking smoke
this is the place where pigeons play their games

My crowd  isnt the kind  who  would think of as upscale.
But there the kind  that might call ya at four in the morning
askin could ya post bail.

Yeah they may not be driving  the latest overpriced sports car.
But it's easy to find there soon to be clunkers.
Cause there always parked outside the local bar.

They'll  take there lunch at the *******.
Instead  of that country club fair.
To hell with the back swing.
Cause that dancer at the table's got a hell of a pair.

And the opera isnt are thing.
But dam if we dont get loud.
So happy being messed up welcome  to my crowd.

I say love thy neighbor   just dont get caught.
We didnt spend are summers in the hamptons.
Puff puff pass was some of the lessons we were taught.

Whiskey beer  and other accesories i spent most my
life with my head in a cannabis laced cloud.
Hey I might seem like rehab material to you.
But im just a ordinary fella  in my crowd.

omnipresent sick to my ******* stomach

dressed in mosquitoes that are woolen
like the lining of my english ******* and
coated in a complex mixture of secreted proteins
i follow the screen of the teleprompter as it storms,
blue and brilliant behind a mess of optical wiring.

lip and teeth
theres bile at the base of my throat
threatening to bust with each greased second
as my brain becomes nauseated by the snow-drift
of sentences burning the back of my eyelids.
i've never believed the things i read
so now i'm mute but spitting, spiteful and unoriginal
visualizing their greyhound decapitations in high colour.
nearly implying transit to our friendship or something
that would only churn the stomach like rich food after famine

so yes, i am the cruelest female of august
shipwrecked on the front porch with the lamplight raining in my mind
and i'm asking the moon as it rises like a solemn word
why i'm sick all the time, sweating
from everywhere but my tear ducts and
waiting for several breeds of cold to attack my corpse

the hi-fi plays solace to the
granular lobby upon the television screen;
as it flickers from camera angle to camera angle
(tech step moving company,
breaking down to
a                                        white beat)

and i *****
as a panorama of  ******* spasms
discharge throughout my entire skeleton  
and my pulse beats lightly, kilometres
below a curtain of bloated flesh

tonguing lady lucky's aluminum lips, i'm
pickled in sea of apricot floral: meteor bursts
searing behind goo-goo eyes

and i *****
unwanted sentence structure, that gets
caught between the chesterfield and my square saturn venus

tonight
she will fall into her bed
drunk and resplendant
perform a modern dance concert
writhing between the sheets
struggling to find a moment of perfection
in her otherwise
****** up life