The gravel mounted marching marvel
sits upside his un-flowered garment tree-tower
like a garbage man, empty in hand.
Cross-legged and lonely in the southen south sea starred sea-line.
The mongrel-boy only lives in the world of the momentary scene.
Split-peeping Tom of the latch-key life style.
Under-wired by a foul contempt for self doubt & self pity
SELF.
If you ever saw me eat a lemon you would make that face too,
you undercover she-wolf, you.
All you ever do is sit around and ask me questions about Eden Phillpotts
and I just dont have the answers, I'm sorry,
but I'm not sorry that im sorry.. sorry.
You sorry sonnabitch.
How can I ever be expected to build this chimney with you breathing down my neck
like some great mythical ***** producing factory worker?
All the pills in the pile will never fill the hole in your vast empty belly
and all the powders in the pill box will never amount to a mound large enough
to fill the crater in your pasty face.
Shoot from the hip.