Everything I touch turns to shit
Except real shit which turns to money
Money that I owe people
So I rarely bother

I’m probably gonna die soon anyway
I have a sense of impending doom
Of utter doom
Of utter fucking doom
I’m really quite serious about this doom situation
Doom for which this fecal version
Of the Midas Plan
Is little or no consolation

I’m almost out of food
I’ll have to start eating shit soon
If I can’t get people to feed me
If I can’t get people to handle my food
If I can’t get people to stop shaking hands

I tried to eat without turning my food to shit a couple of weeks ago
I had to go face down on the counter
I cut my face up pretty good on that wooden thing that holds the knives
That’s why I grew this beard

This terrible terrible beard
To hide my hideous hideous face
The face of utter fucking doom

Lay yourself to heavy hands
Take a step to hear behind you
from a place of still it comes
Listening too hard to the world

The nuclear ipod
The infinite within the infinite
Both sides of the coin

And God is a question of presence
A question of what is

Of course you can’t believe it:
The future is a dream
The past is a stone sunk in the river
And now is the time we wait until we can live out our dreams

What’s on TV?
Have you heard the new Justin Timberlake?
It’s actually pretty good.
Say, where can I get a pair of those?

Put your shoulder to the grindstone
Sleep with one eye open
Clear your mind
Be your own boss

Obviously I’m in dire need of your blood.

I should have taken you up on the offer way before this

I’ll smoke a little marijuana

Then I’ll be ready

I have a castle

You can come by

Me and the wolfman play cards on Thursdays

That’s the only time I drink hard

I get up early

So, you can call me when you get up

I don’t have a crypt

But I have a couch made of cinder blocks

I spend a lot of time watching porn

I like Lolita teenz

And small titz galleries

When things get too bad I just cover my eyes

I’m paying a guy several hundred dollars to build my website

There are a lot of flies in here

Feeding

Laying fly-egg

Ready ready ready drink

One two three drink

On your mark get set drink

I want to drink the fuck out of you

Sorry, no, still an observer

I think I feel something

Shit digressing

Shit

Maybe if I run out and say

I vant to sock yoor blahd!

Like in the golden age

Before Tom Fucking Cruise

Before the blood runs down my Goddamn chin.

Mickey Mantle drinks scotch
Sets his drink on the Mantle
Maybe it leaves a little ring
Babe Ruth drinks scotch

Talks about the time:

Swung his donkey bat
At the left field wall
Bludgeon you with his donkey bat
Piss and cum and wine and vinegar
And mirth and myrrh arch out the tip when real true contact wakes it up
Flows like wine

Mickey:

Yeah, Babe,
But you swung at everything
Homerun King, sure
But also, like, “strike you’re out”
Boom, “strike you’re out”
“Strike, you’re out”
Long Pause
“Strike ONE”
“Strike TWO”
And so on

I’m Babe Goddamn Ruth
Horse Dick Adonis
Flapity-Jack the Conjurer
Manipulator, commanding the common yield to the SPLENDID
Splitting The Crack of Dawn
Splitting it like The Crack of The Goddamn Bat

Spitting huge mouthfuls of vinegar tobacco spit into the ocean, who is my only true competition

Insane rhythm less roofers
Nailing shingles
To the morning of the skull

Psychiatric Lawnmen
Mowing mazes
Right outside the windows of eternity

Laboratory Brain Monkeys
Beating Shakespeare
Into infinite electric typewriters

Savage Savage City Bus
Belching gravel sounds and Hell-guts
Every 7 ½ minutes
Inches from the heads of sleeping babies
And sad-angel young mothers

Soulless young couple
Latching the Jap-slap kiss of SUV doors
Returning home from yet ANOTHER shopping trip

Hungry air conditioners
Growling atom bombs
Inches from the heads of our own sleeping lovelies
And thus reaffirming their stoic necessity
In beating off the hot hot Devil-sun of Texas

Our own angry refrigerator
Whose staggered babble talk
Beckons inquiry from those lost children of Purgatory
The telemarketers

Phones ringing even now
At this hour
An hour which I’m told
Is less under the watch of God
Than the ones in which Wall Street is open

The Final Bell Sounded hours ago
Wall Street is closed
God is in bed
His eyes are half-open
And His head rests silent on a pillow of clouds

I’m jumping ship to Europe
I’m leaving the velvet screw
I’m leaving the heterosexual dollar
I’m leaving the bombs of Detroit
The smells,
The bosses,
Those things that fall out of magazines
Those things that float off my plate

Those saintly nosey neighbors
Whose noses smell faint odors
And ears hear noises that fall out of doors

And serve General Issue who issues orders
To order extra issues
Of copies for his porter

And two coffees to go from starbucks
For chauffeurs driving hearses
With carlocks to keep corpses in coffins
Safe from warlocks

And Catholics in priest frocks and dysentery
Who lament violent over
Last rights missed or misread
And so throw clocks through windows
And smash books with crosses in libraries

A jumper of the gun for morning’s cool snatch
A number of plumbers in innumerable gymnasia about to receive the gynecological wristwatch
A romper room where the kids sit quiet and roll balls back and forth in a game of catch
A phone, A castle, A glass, A sports team, A piece of cotton, A hubcap, A batch of cookies, A piece of burlap

A circle on the floor
Surrounded by roadmaps
And cans
And pages
And pages
And pages
Of ash

I ate something with thrush on it
I think it was a handrail

I was eating the hand rail because
I saw the finest girl ever slide right down it

And she weren’t wearing no clothes
And she was sliding fast

Fast like she had a bar of soap clenched up between her legs
To slide fast
And maybe to wash the handrail

But there weren’t no soap there
I wished there was
Cause now I got the thrush

And when the fevers come
Like they are want to do
With thrush
I like to drift off and think about eating that handrail head on
Bottom to the top
Like a sausage

And I like to think about Freud
He was a German

You might think a German is an alright kind of person
And not to hate-monger (I’ll leave that to the Germans)
But a German is what type of person not only
Was Hitler
But because Hitler WAS ELECTED
A type of person what votes for Hitler

Huh…

Uh…

Germans made good sausage

And
Now
For

The Fevers