Government housing,
shoelace subway station loans leave me barefoot across the hardest asphalt amazon.
Waterfall language blended with high volume.
It's like a bathrobed foreigner near luggage pick-up shouting:
"It's too late to catch the end of the world train".
The clocks fixed to bomb tickings
that run the routine,
Sure to schedule human collateral in between the minutes left trickling behind when breaking speed limits;
2 alternate realities late.
(Half past Valhalla, a block down from Revelations.)
Fortune's told at palm reading's for my corpse that's in the wrong casket,
Cast by astrological accident to substitute in place of a forgotten friendships funeral arranged by bothered bitter bastards.
Attack, Attack.
Button-mashing masked mad-hatters.
That was only the beginning to the wrong and the bad,
Fresh records in the back of arrests from a past not silent enough yet.
Bored to death at ceremonies,
Only half-dead.
Necrophiliac moonlight vengeance.
Grave robbing rapist robin hood lost his head,
to bones with needs defined undead,
Chatter-box bones with no speech, not even a sentence.
Running out of flesh,
Where's the after-party at?
Lady lust's licorice and liquor.
Swim, saliva swim quick away from a swollen tongue slobbering atop questionable discrediting concrete bedding.
Cannibalistic women,
A cobblestone late as far as bedrock goes.
Stone age-there's already a hole in my chest, deviant harlots as friendly as each fiendish enemy.
The last thing I'm worried about is sinning,
Bare mental calendars, the time machine is dead again, so the phone's out.
Leave a voicemail for revolutionary surgeons slurping down some drowning organs,
small-talk with full mouths waging bets,
Scrap fed dogs, play fetch.
I'm in love with cemeteries,
So where can I get out of this herse called a cab?
Drop me off the next rooftop,
Native tourist under the influence but above sea level smashed.
New Yorker demography photography;
Beer goggles project a building beautifully swallowed by orange and American debt.
Dollar store flip flops found on the 3rd aisle next to molded bread.
24 stories up I slip off,
Dizzy from endorphins; Such bad luck.
Gravity woke me up on the wrong side of the bed.
Wrapped and trapped in grade-school canvas.
The drawer cargo: one fragile motel bible...missing pages.
My rolling papers shooting blanks.
Bankrupt, blanking out on tasteless wallpaper shades of a sadder sage.
Cranium parking lot reservations, space ranging from heart attacks to a redness on my iris blacked.
Do fractures need artsy autographed casts?
On the inside harder scars represent bite marks wolves left with their teeth after their dinner had been blessed.
I can get some 3-quarters of American rest,
Shake hands with death, and consider snatching a scythe to slaughter house guests.
Lethargic, body separate and apart, ornamental limbs decorate and compliment the curb's new color coat;
A fresh, wet, white and red.