Lacramose Laughter

Multiple visits spread over more than one day, but it wasn't rape, it wasn't rape, I gave it up for my country, and then I came back and they plugged me into the monocomputer and it came up rejected, now this bridge is mine, everything underneath, and first dibs on the steam grate in winter. And you're no better. Africa or Mexico worse. We're all layed low, and it makes not a damn to the wobbly turning.

To The One

Who says I never write for. The only one I write for. The only reason I write. A lot of lot of other things. The Sneaker Pimps say bloodsport, Bradley Sublime said hit the bottle and go right to the rock and Ziggy B he say not one damn song can make him break down and cry, the liar is c. They go like green and gold go into my eyes and down in my heart and hold it, like a little bird; even as I lie, and only that little boy inside knows why and he only says 'I don't know' why, over every petty thing, that I fear would drive a wedge between me and my spot near your hips; and never read what you've written, it'll only quell the weird truth we all are and here you are just wanting the gift bags of celebrity events and big houses and cars and lives that only exist in imagination; as if I ever had the wisp of a hint of a cusp of thread.