So I'm thinking that I'd like to start a ruckus
Run down the street and tell people what tools they are
Maybe tussle their hair or nudge them
But I don't want to go to jail
Not even a holding cell
Not in New York
I guess it could be no worse than Baltimore
But I guess there's the stigma
With no god and no memory and no purpose
I feel like a wallet
Just a big, floppy, empty composite
Skin folded on skin
Sewed up the middle
Just to hold it together
Bending in whatever way the fold says to go
A limp little bounce
With no desire
Only purpose
To be filled
And get emptied again
And get filled up again
Define something
The more or less
With so many interesting people out there
I fear that I am one of the others
The not interesting
It bothers me
Both that I am not that interesting
And that I have the innate desire to be
I spit and shit on that desire
And that is the last one
I'm tired of being a tool
I want to be inspired
But pictures of writers prostrated on the beach
In deep thought
Always look better than being there
On the beach there are smells and sounds you didn't expect
Bothersome textures and strong winds
And maybe I've been on the wrong beaches
But I'd just curse those on a better beach anyway
Because that's where I'm at right now
Like a babe
Stripped
Naked
Hungry
Uncomfortable
Who wants to write on their spare time?
And writing as a job sounds like a chore
Spare time
Isn't that the crux of independence
Feeding on the sludge in your free time
I'd like to free time
Bash that fucking clock
All springs and gears
Hither and thither
In my spare time
When I stop day dreaming about a riot
--
3.7.08
Run down the street and tell people what tools they are
Maybe tussle their hair or nudge them
But I don't want to go to jail
Not even a holding cell
Not in New York
I guess it could be no worse than Baltimore
But I guess there's the stigma
With no god and no memory and no purpose
I feel like a wallet
Just a big, floppy, empty composite
Skin folded on skin
Sewed up the middle
Just to hold it together
Bending in whatever way the fold says to go
A limp little bounce
With no desire
Only purpose
To be filled
And get emptied again
And get filled up again
Define something
The more or less
With so many interesting people out there
I fear that I am one of the others
The not interesting
It bothers me
Both that I am not that interesting
And that I have the innate desire to be
I spit and shit on that desire
And that is the last one
I'm tired of being a tool
I want to be inspired
But pictures of writers prostrated on the beach
In deep thought
Always look better than being there
On the beach there are smells and sounds you didn't expect
Bothersome textures and strong winds
And maybe I've been on the wrong beaches
But I'd just curse those on a better beach anyway
Because that's where I'm at right now
Like a babe
Stripped
Naked
Hungry
Uncomfortable
Who wants to write on their spare time?
And writing as a job sounds like a chore
Spare time
Isn't that the crux of independence
Feeding on the sludge in your free time
I'd like to free time
Bash that fucking clock
All springs and gears
Hither and thither
In my spare time
When I stop day dreaming about a riot
--
3.7.08
Comments