IN PROGRESS

Big liars wet their backs with the crusty mayonaise 
at the bottom of the jar, 
And you sit there judging me?
The Breadwinners win the bread,
Crusty in their innocence, 
have they forgotten that they are slaves?

Rhythmic tattoos crop up on her skin like Big Black leeches, 
So take your tobacco-stained, picket fenced lips, 
And attach them slightly to your nearest Korean Grocer, 
That's where the money's at Honey.

Blown over by the apocalytptic ramblings of the latest hip slacker, 
Why does India food always ruin my Khaki pants?

It doesn't take a seer to see a scene is coming soon, 
Hatred flares above the stairs, 
Hatred stares out from the moon.

Noontime patrons of the lost patrols,
Shitting dreams in toilet bowls,
Scraping bowls in savage glory,
Glaring up their faces gory.

Itching, Scratching, Itching, Scratching, 
Flailing for a cogent thought,
Why endure the yearning,
When escaping is so cheaply bought.

I felt you standing in my shadow, 
Grabbing at my fading form.
But I left 10 dollars on the dresser,
Go back to your two bit dorm.

'Cause there's a crack in the wall,
Through which you'll smell all.
Your past congeals what your future conceals, 
A perming fading, a rotting, a rotting, erotic.

The Captain sits in his apricot pit,
Demanding views of heavenly shit.
As his armpit drips on grandma's nit,
Stuttering on the tongue he bit.

He dreams of nights with Joyce Dewitt,
And sharing his remnant of English wit, 
With every two bit whore that his arms can devour.

Next we meet old Stewart Potter,
His brain was used as cannon fodder,
Now his words just seem to dodder.
Like Horshack lost on "Welcome Back Kotter".

{POETRY}