Friday, June 20, 2008

Trifuckta.

Does poetry matter?
Not really.

Except to the self.
Except to the self.
Except to the self.
And the few who do.
But mostly to the self.

The self is the head of stare.
Stairs always lead up,
Always flow down.
Occupied by eagles
Clad in the makeup of a clown.

Skip to the loo my darling.

Can you hear me over this?

How about this?

I really do like this country.
Despite all my claims to the contrary.

I like being able to pee off of my front or back porch.

I like being able to say “Fuck you” or “Fuck off” to anybody,
At anytime,
For no reason.
No fucking reason.

“The goddamned plane has crashed into the mountain!” said Lebowski.
Man.

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