Hey.
I saw what you’re trying to do--
& I can tell you right now,
it won’t work.
You’re trying to sneak into a li’l niche through you infirmities,
¿Sí?
You thought you could ‘scape.
You were wrong.
We found you out like a trout,
flopping flippantly like febrile phalluses,
spraying your jizz all o’er my exquisite slacks.
That’s gross.
You have no class.
Wipe that mucus from your chin,
wipe that droll from your nose,
pee on the carpet, please:
it needs cleaning.
Just look @ your face.
¡Wait!
¿How’d you do that?
Those who can see their own faces
can only do so through craned eyes.
You’re crazy, man.
Stay ‘way from me, man.
But your door’s locked.
I know you’re doors locked ‘cause you’re still such a substantial dumbshit to fucking find it.
So now I’m stuck with you,
caught in curfew,
when profusely I could be drinking in the smoky air,
sitting on squeaky benches--all o’ them @ once--under maple elms or swimming in seas o’ lucre green--
figuratively, ‘cause it’d truly be in a bank, obviously--
driving, climbing, computing,
eating o’ the arts—culinary or not--all for which I pined,
fed my conscience by catering sentiments o’ my own...
But no--
¡too rich for your veins!
¡Party in the checkered sheets o’ shame!
Waiting. ¿For what?
You’ve filtered the falsities in every nutritious solution;
you know what must be done.
There’s no talking to you.
What kind o’ crazy must I be to be talking to--
¡O Jesus!
¡It’s in me, too!
& therefore it’d be crazy for it to be in you,
which means it’d be crazy for it to be in me, too.
¿What’s wrong with you?
