(1999)
nobody goes mad on purpose, also never is it not shared,
the very idea that i could be
shut my eyes and squeeze my demand, the point of a spear. what will happen.
stupid met crazy decided to have a baby or two... what else you gonna do?
shall we turn down the covers, crawl inside? find there a place that’s been waiting for us, a vortex of sorts
this being we are, delights in all things, yes but is held breathless
now, I’m no Bukowski but my friends who don’t like poet… except his stuff, tell me they like mine, and I can drink like a drinking machine
let’s put all the stupid things in a pile and call them “love” or “worry” or
god is unwelcome in suburbia, the cells are too comfortable there, & love rests best under stars.
like bell bottoms or disco but we need it to think i’m dead
of the things that make me become better only music is unlike surgery
just listen the trees drink silly.. I work i work that day the not
if you enjoy this pain, all expressions of it, being here compiled, then, yes enjoy them, but
people, mostly all barely beyond apes, cannot be trusted. they are incapable of caring
a few hundred million dying days later he emerges into crazy
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