fisher king's wasteland

your brown, greasy locks, make me think of a moose your pants are too tight and your shirt is too loose your lips are too glossy, your cheeks the wrong shade your eyeliner's smeared and your breath reeks of raid your bare, winter legs shout "i wanna get laid" your implants show us you've been curved on a grade the only thing not 'round your neck is a noose your sweater's too fluffy, you look like a goose you flutter your eyelids and expect to be paid with your nose in the sky, through the city you wade ignoring the world as you wobble your rear but your act, not your face, is what makes people jeer is there someone who loves you, is faithful and cares? who won't find it funny when you fall down the stairs?

the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flower pot is dead and cracked and quiet, and it's steaming, baking hot the dark red flower pot lies empty and unused the seeds that used to lie in it were x-rayed 'til they bruised then pop-pop-popped like popcorn, like the fireworks and guns that sprayed the world with pesticide, that coated nature's lungs as i walk through the alley of the shadow of death i'm human and unbeing as i draw my last breath it smells like the safety of gunpowder and bombs like the laughter of kids screaming and the slaughter of songs the walking dead surround me, but they think they're alive as they shamble through the broken-mirrored halls of their hive they only see themselves, so i'm not sure if i'm real i don't know where i came from and i don't know what to feel i think i might be floating, might be drowning, migh

i'd forgotten what spring feels like after long, fat winter lying dormant prone, or on the couch but not out there not up there not through there now i remember with birds singing and the breeze puffing dandelions in the gentle sunlight summer is the exhaustion, not from life and survival but from running, from jumping, from climbing sore fingers, sore back, sore feet all bandaged and plastered with smiles adrenaline and elation and the faint hope that this summer will be just like spring

is the supermarket a "house of pleasure" that it closes its doors on holocaust memorial day? are the workers inside? are they pleasuring themselves? under bright lights with the fruits and the vegetables the bread sticks and the soft, warm government whole loaves? are they sprawled across the aisle where the liquor stands laughing and playing amidst the mounds of burst bags of candy and marshmallows their hands and faces and bodies sticky with ecstasy? here i am stuck on the lonely, desolate sidewalk in the quiet, empty night hungry dirty with nobody to beg a dime from and nothing i'd be able to use it for

i don't know what privation is or is not any more than i know the squiggles and teeth of the horse, whose head lies between crocodile's teeth i know what i know is what i don't know is pre-oedipal pre-conscious pre-lacking and its sublime sublimation sees me chewing pencils instead of my words did i hear that? or is it mere phantasm? or is it... come, come, you misunderstand it's not so hard, is it? are you your mother's phallus or did you...? no, no. yes. no. and then, maybe i'm wrong and i'm actually on the right path. look, here's the chain of signifiers significant? no meaning to the symbols, but you can't have them and thats not frustrating at all here's the key, but it has no key to figure out how to turn it it bites, the horse clamps down on the crocodile's jugular. its phallus? poor child. poor mother. poor sigma'd freud. frustrated he would be if he knew what we didn't.

"but it's made of gold... and puppies... you can't ask for more fair 'n that!" "easy bub, just take it easy. your statue's great, you know, but we're not a single entity and we have to consider the masses - just because it's not very popular doesn't mean it's not very good. either way it certainly doesn't justify jumping off a building... although if you must, as far as buildings go," his voice faded momentarily as he leaned over the edge, "i gotta say that this one's pretty tall, so i can tell you with confidence that your taste in doom is far enough from what one could call masochistic."

the elephant apologized to the kangaroo for stepping on the eggs, then raised his trunk maliciously.

i locked myself in my own cage convinced it was for my own good i hated myself was ashamed of myself and broke out as soon as i could

we painted our faces we readied our spears fucked our wives goodbye then left to their cheers