I was riding my red bicycle,
scraped a face off on the asphault.
Potholes in my papers,
leafing through my crumbling thoughts.
Shouldn't we pave over those?
Yes, you don't,
don't you say!
Haven't you learned anything?
underneath these bleeding noses,
want to listen? sure you do,
the sinus birds shall cry:
'back to minus, back to silence,
it's been nothing but a circus,
tuesday tickets all you're good for,
won't you leave us alone to fly'
It was then that I was sober,
contradicting
all my enemy's red filth.
and I'd found Sir Isaac Newton, wearing some
Burgundy Communist Pinko undergarments,
rotting apart in silt.
then, getting back from my appointment,
not realizing mother's helper
had gone out to change the diapers
and done nothing more but joke that we'd been told,
oh, what a drag it is...getting old.
so I clutched close my cigar,
driving home my ancient car,
and there's more,
but wait,
it's not funny, it's not sad,
on a clear day like today,
when the weather's so indifferent,
and I am...I am too.
you don't. you don't say.