living in a dream, trapped in a chair
don’t f**k in the food, i don’t eat hair
saying hello, but feeling like hearing
nothing more than a hill of beans upon which three
ants are crawling upward bearing their heavy burden
of what some would call coincidence or even less than
i thought about, which wasn’t much to begin with a
crinkling sound in the closet full of hot air and a few
more shots to go around the mountain, here she comes, goin’
‘round the mulberry bush, pop goes the cap gun, firing
up another smoke comes before fire, and don’t play with
it, or you’ll get more than you ever knew was there in
a darkened room, developing a false sense of confusion about
whatever you were wondering if there was anything more
to this story about a little frog who once sat on a tuffet, eating
her curds and chewing her cud like a daffodil in the breeze,
showering the earth with warm and pleasing scents that
rain upon the undeserving. Who is to say that the spare parts
weren’t included? only time will smell, but not like the
roses you asked for; we’re out of those, you know what i feel like?
me neither, so let’s get some sleep and dream about a field where
only comatose thorns can bloom and blossom and go to seeds that
Johnny was tossing about. who else is in there? Oh. Just the
sounds of broken toys crunching underfoot.
laugh if you will, but only two things can be said of
this simple recipe which only requires a minimum deposit of dung
that dangles, then falls on the soft cushion of yesteryear and
bleak thoughts of a saddened clown dancing in the moonlight
shines across the river of tears that drip from a leaky faucet
needs to be fixed so he won’t hurt himself playing in the streets
of this war-torn city that is blanketed with doom
Ha! And you thought life made sense.