I always post when I'm ill.

Domains of Sadness

She works
in a Wal-Mart-
Straight out
of a law firm-
“Some life” she thinks.
This is her domain of sadness-
A place where air is tear gas,
A place where stomachs never settle,
A place where clothing sags from your
Arms and legs and waist.

She used to wear suits
to expensive dinners-
Now she’s as good as dead,
in her stale bakery,
if the donuts don’t come out right.

Transformed from something alive-
To nothing but a miserable motherhood-
That smells like pounds of icing-

Old ages love life,
as cold as a winter’s hand job.
Its like,
NO FUN
NO FUN
NO FUN-

This domain of sadness, truly crippling,
makes for a
mass of wrinkles,
and a hoarse voice.

And there’s my best friend-
Anger.
He always shows up to the domain of sadness,
orders a few drinks, smokes a few cheap cigarettes.
All he can afford.
He brings screaming matches, crying eyes,
unbelievable lunacy.
He comes from his own domains,
which are underground
in the domains of sadness.
Its loneliness, uncertainty of income,
Ignorance (who is from the domain of bliss),
and shit like
Cancer.

Mother fucking anger-
Mother fucking sadness-
Mother fucking pain-
All crowded around the streets
in the daylight
keying each others cars,
slashing each others tires-
slobbering in the nightlight,
stubbing the toes of their bare feet
on the unpaved-rocky roads
of these treacherous towns
belonging to the beautiful people,
who have given up
everything.








Self Pity

Poor Jimmy,
Always writing about sick love-
When will he write something new?
Its like he swallows his own
poetic saliva-
and pukes it into his
computer.
He makes himself weak in the knees,
he takes his own breath away,
he drinks love potion
and stares in the mirror-
He is his own muse.

Poor James,
What is it he’s looking for?
To be immortal-
Nah, death is too sexy.
To be alone-
Nah, female morning breath smells
too good.
To do the right thing-
Fuck it.

Poor Jim Jim,
He’ll never be a song writer-
He practices everyday and can’t even read music-
He runs down the block with his heart in his hands-
He carries on-
“I can not strum my guitar to the way it beats!”
He grows his hair long-
only to tear it out.

Poor Jimbo,
He can’t break the bad habit-
can’t slow the bad diet-
just can’t keep money in his pocket.
Couldn’t type you a song if you sang it to him,
couldn’t love you the same if you taught it to him.

Poor guy,
Deaf to kindness-
Blind to real beauty-
Not so well read-
Up the creek
with rocks
for brains.







The Sad Songwriter

Oh he’s got the energy on the stage,
The crowd really loves him.
He smokes his eyes red and plays that guitar-
What does he sing about?
Nothing, he’s bashful when it comes to lyrics.
He also hates his voice-
He can’t hit the right note.
All he’s got is ideas-
Million dollar hits-
Like Lennon?
No way-
Lennon could sing remember?
And his lyrics were gold.
This sad,
Sad songwriter-
He’s got nothing to sing about but being spoiled
And stoned,
His last song went something like this:
“Mama I need some money,
Mama my stomach it hurts,
Mama I’m out of party drugs,
Mama lala lala
Mama lala lala”
Wow, that’s really awful-
You’ll like it,
Takes a few listens.

Where can we see him play?
He doesn’t play out much-
Oh I get it, he’s strictly a studio musician huh?
Not exactly-
I’d describe him as a trash performer-
He only plays in his room-
He treats his songs like junk-
If he did paintings,
those canvases would warp and bend,
he would never put them in a gallery.
This songwriter sucks, I think he needs a new hobby-
I’ll play you some of his songs someday-
Trust me,
they are catchy.




Liquor

Makes me bang my fists
On hard wood floors,
Shit out words I truly feel about
Yyyy-you.

Nervous stutter?

That’s what you do to me,
Like bloated fucking mutters
Swollen cheeks
From crying to you in my sleep
My teeth slicing the inside of my mouth
In layers,
Puking the way you wear those jeans
SNUG
On those artistic hips
Into my brand new toilet.