Lo siento…

Yo no había querido reír a tu cara.

Sólo estaba pensando de la posibilidad de comer todo un bloque de queso para cena,

que nada sino un bloque de queso.

Crees que no podía hacerlo, ¿No?

Crees que derribar a la burguesa de la cena

haría demasiado radical para mí,

que no yo podía llevar tan radicalismo.

Pues, equivocas.

En realidad, derribo la burguesa todas las veces,

que incluso sólo para divertido.

¿Cómo te gustan esos martillos?

Apuesto a que los comes con mantequilla todas las noches, ¿No?

Claro que sí…

Claro que sí…

Se derrocha una otra cebolla.

Pienso muchas veces de los oportunidades perdidos…

Pienso de los tacos comería…

Incluso las veces que yo chapoteaba el carne y el queso en mí mismo.

Y pienso de todos los sitios del web pude leer…

He dicho demasiado.

Estos secretos no deberían escaparse en el mundo fuera como las virutas derramadas, nunca.

Prometeme que no lo dirás a nadie.

Si liberas los piedras en el mar verde,

me hará añicos en tu suelo

y hará un desorden grande.

¿Es lo que querrías?

¿Querrías que tiriten todos los invitados como el papel

por la vista del charco de piel en tu suelo?

Eres una mala persona, ¿lo sabes?

No quiero que te quedes en mí cómodo cómoda no más.

Sé lo que estás haciendo.

Y no me gusta.

Kitty-kitty cat,
you are very bad;
you have blood on your whiskers,
give me my arm back.

♪ O, O, O, homeless woman eating snow… ♫
“Shut up, hippie!
Can’t you see I’m trying to eat my Doughie-Os?
I can’t eat my Doughie-Os when your moaning
makes my stomach shrank.”
♪ Some kids have to eat their feet for midnight snacks… ♫
“Ack! Now you’ll done did it:
now my eyes & nose are full o’ liquid.
I’ll ne’er get ’em out;
I’m suing you for the whole gout.”
♪ The moon ne’er shone me no love,
so I burned myself to death in the desert sun… ♫
“I don’t have to listen to this guff:
this bar was buttered bread till you scraped it too rough.
If you don’t give me back my veiny lung…
then I’m b-gonna take myself to ‘nother rug—
& it’ll be groovy orange like tangerines;
you can’t put that rage in your machine.”
♪ The lampshades are on fire & I’ve got nowhere to go… ♫
“Why don’t you sing ’bout problems people can relate to?—
like the itch on my toe.
They shouldn’t allow it to grew.
It just isn’t true…
O, puke stains!”

Everyone’ll dead died ’cause they skipped their Friday fire ‘scape lessons, being too busy with their boyfriend, Demetrius, whom they know doesn’t truly love them, but they’re just not ready to break it off just yet, just give them a few weeks to decide.

La casa está sombreado en el azul frió,
apoyaen los nubes de llamas rosas…
que pues, fue…
¿Ahora?
Ahora se frota
en todos los otros colores,
en el mismo negro.
Pero, no ten no miedo…
Volverá el día próximo.
Todas veces vuelve.
…
Pues, a menos que se demuela por una guerra nuclear.
No podemos tener todo.
¿Y por qué lo querías todo en todo caso?
¿Sabes que se incluye muchas cosas apestosas, sí?
Como la orina de alguien,
llena de la fragancia fresca del amoniaco.
¿Es esa lo que quieras?
¿Por qué estás jodido?
(O jodida,
no soy sexista.)
Alejeteme.
Esta iba un agradable poema
hasta que las hiciste las cosas extrañas.
Todas veces lo haces,
y es muy grosero.
Debería darte vergüenza.

Lluvia y fumo,
lluvia y niebla,
hacéis el invierno frío cálido.
Pues, a menos que por los sin casa,
los nervios llenos de escalofríos,
se están reducido pieza por pieza
por el frío de la lluvia mojada.
No se sentirán nada cálido
ni amor ni nada bien
jamás.
Ahora que lo pienso,
la lluvia, el fumo y la niebla son un poco pendejos.

We all have problems, kid.

Then put a sweater on, asshole.

Tricky, tricky, Mr. America:
I've 'scaped your traps so far;
but 1 day you'll get me.

I show no fear,
I feign ignorance;
but I know what you're boiling up...
Tricky li'l devil, you...

I know what you're planning:
you won't just smash me with your invisible palm;
you'll do it nice & slow...
Nice & slow...
Like a fine stew.
Delicious.

Can you taste the spiciness o' my blood,
the tanginess o' my gizzards?
No...
No, you wouldn't, would you...
You wouldn't taste nothing at all,
wouldn't even notice my stew 'pon your plate.
That's the trouble with you:
you're always so busy;
You never have time to enjoy the screams o' your prey.
Now, what kind o' life is that?
Get out mo', Mr. America;
breathe some fresh air.
I like to do that oft,
when it won't get me in trouble.
There are lots o' things that will get me in trouble.
Since you're so free,
you never tell me what they are.
So I have to guess.
Sometimes I guess wrong.
But that's OK.
I like the mental stimulation.

But you, Mr. America:
you're 'bove getting in trouble.
So, why aren't you happier?

I know you won't read this.
So many wives & not 'nough time to listen to them.
'Sides, you wouldn't like what they have to say.
That's OK.
I'd like to say that you'll regret me when I'm gone;
but that would not be perfectly accurate.
So, please, don't finish that stew I made for you if you don't want it.
I did a bad job, anyway.
I'm always doing a bad job.
I even tried ripping a few pieces o' my flesh
& adding them as you like.
But I guess it wasn't...
No.
No, there's no use in laboring the issue.
Just shove it to the side.
Someone will pick it up eventually.
& if not, the flies will surely enjoy it.

Don't fuck it up.

It's okay...
Everything'll be fine...

But don't fuck it up.

Think how exciting it must be!
	The risks!
Throw down the dice
	& how you don't get snake eyes...
		You'll shrivel and die...

You'll do fine...
If you truly want to live,
	You'll do everything right.
The hand knows everything...
	It knows if you've been bad or good,
Knows whether you have or have not been efficient.
Would it harm you if you didn't deserve it?
	How would we know if you didn't?
The hand knows.
It knows you.
You don't know it.
You can't even see it.
You're nothing to it.

So shut up,
Calm down,
Button-up that jacket, chap,
& go to town.
Everything'll work out swell.

Everything's safe here.

Just. Don't. Fuck it up.