Everything Pours In: may '97

Carl's dead.
I'm trying.
I haven't felt the
loving lash of caring
for at least an hour.
Chest vamps for
smoke,
I still smell.
And the Mensheviks
still haven't recognized
my chin.

untitled scrawl: still yet again, may '97

The Public Library grumbles
some self-gripe about
being stationed in a
college town.
I scramble to avoid
envisioning a tired vision
of a certain someone
wanting to spin clothes with me.
The People are checked
by the future and left
to get colder. Doesn't
look like the Swinehouse
has anyone to shoot today.
And I'm still trying to
swallow my excuse.

untitled scrawl: yet again, may '97

I throw my dice
in fate's mouth.
The simple beauty is:
it spits them back.

As I idled my way
to judgment
the audience asked:
What did you say about
vomiting the truth?

Spin faster, faster
more Megahertz
get a good soliliquy in
before they take your
underwear.

untitled scrawl: again, may '97

The hill known as
courage rolls in my
stomach as little dancing
cowards cheer my name
"THIS IS MYSTICAL SHIT"
when oh when will I
accept that I know that
then was the time?
Probably now.
They beat us with honor
flayed us with integrity
but they neglected to pay.
Separation, where the hell
do I place my stand?
Where I'm sitting?
Speaking of which,
I dance a spinning floor.

untitled scrawl: may '97

One more time boys,
After that
we rest
rest away until we
no longer recognize
anything.

Look at my defiant comfort.
Dance on a sponge
Drain.
I am done.