waiting in vain in the rain for the bombs to maim in spain.
smeared on an e. st. louis wall.
she crashes on the couch of that tattoo parlor before her gig as a stripper
i go farther
with some estranged form of longing like this.
this is why i used to wait a lot
but i don't wait like this much more.
the wars build up in the spectacle machine,
i fed up with my percieved friend's disease.
i clean cut, what the fuck,
writing epics on the torn underwear of the machine,
cased in like a fiend,
it's cold and ice-storms kill babies.
mad-drama in brick houses and invisible kids with scabies.
the rain in my pained head keeps pouring,
getting pneumonia while authority is snoring.
sick-kids with sickness
build up like a tower my lonely.
slapping the asses of businessmen,
is alienation inherent in this fuck-all absurdity?
what does this forsooth?
strange numbers, and damn are numbers strange.
anger in the smokey heart of the midwest.
in the corner i'm a stormer, silent snorer
gone with the motherfuckn birds.
loose lips, sink ships
and i give disaster danger tips thru all of this,
waiting in vain for the bombs to maim in spain
and my eyes to never-no-more
close they mothafuckn lids.