Tonight I'm going to play poetry as if I were
playing electric guitar on "My Pal Foot Foot."
(Something like hiding out with the well-paid slave
and his carcinogenic testicles). That is I would be
anyway; if my foundation wasn't less then those
sometimes found in Italy.

"At certain times it does take that sort of
bluntness to really hit at home." Then again
sometimes all it takes is a good look at the
price. (My regular argument: the penalty of
wasting time). Telling me where the colours
belong, where the the coats are hung; no thanks,
I'd like to continue wearing mine, if
that's all right with you and God.

Suddenly the telephone will ring. It could
be anyone, but it's going to be the
United States of Americans. He'll be upset
that we didn't get drunk and worship
him on Friday, so I think I won't be
answering for some time. I'll let the
machine get it, (or at least let him keep
the machine).

In order to have more whores (symbolism)
choking on these words will require an
amount of pretty faces pasted on rain-soaked
cardboard and a yet unmentioned conventional
market. (The latter being a real stinger, invented
by a daemon in the late nineteenth century).
In this I am fortunate. Because the assassination
attempts will be slim, and I'm the kind who
couldn't wake up early enough to ever afford that
sort of protection.
 
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