Bring me back to the tracks
of old, where bold baby Jesuses,
tripping on a lush apple,
suck the little life outta me.
I am gonna
gonna get me a
jazzed up sax
and blow blow
blow blow until
I’ve hit a high note.

'But a lot of mud is made by impure hands’.
Say what?
‘A lot of mud is made by impure hands…
Or, as the beatific Beats used to say;

…’

Can ya dig
this pisspoetry
shamragged
in a hole
as the whole
droned up warfare
(isn’t exactly warfair)
is a craft
to be proud of?
You know,
you know, you know,
it’s all a show without actors,
without a stage.
Just the thought of a show.

And that’s more than enough.

We be enemies,
my friend.
Even if we
even out the
possibilities of hate
we still come
up with a
lot of love.
And that’s more than enough…

That’s the way it should be, shouldn’t it?