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I shouldn’t feel bad for having long, slender fingers. I shouldn’t be looking over my guilt shoulder all the time. I feel like I’m wearing a hair shirt. Boo hoo. Poor me. I feel like a champion. Like I am on some quest, tormented. Like I am stoned black in the night, demented. Like I hide from siren songs, fermented.
I like to rhyme
I do it all the time.
I rhyme while you’re talking and when I should be listening. I rhymed my way through your cousin’s whack-ass christening. I’ve rhymed and counted my way through my whole life and all I have to show for it is like forty dope-ass western shirts.
I want to rescue a fireman. Pull him from a flaming automobile. I want to give him mouth to mouth and feel his rough stubble against my rough stubble and be all, “You’re gonna be OK, brother. You made it. Just relax, I’m here; you’re not alone anymore.” And then it will pan out all majestic as fuck. You’ll see.
I want to do one thing heroic. And the fucked thing is I kind of have. I’m not trying to be a hero or anything despite what I just said, but I mean there are a handful of people who would credit me with saving their lives. And they might be goddamn right. I talk a real good ‘get down off the edge’ man. I really do. See, you gotta be fucking mean about it. That’s where people go wrong. Most times, someone wants to off themselves? Everyone assumes you gotta talk all hushed in gentle tones. Not me. I’ll yell at your ass until you’re not only sorry you thought about it, but you want to apologize to everyone.
Don’t believe me? Ask around.
I’m a one trick pony. Can you dig the sound? I know the most tricks out of any fucking pony in town.
There are like two ponies.
That’s a lie – there are no ponies.
C’mon get your ponies. Johnny, get your gun. Jenny, get your ass in gear cause you’re. Not. Done. Never enough and it never will be, you and all the Jenny’s until Christendom, you’d all be better off if you let me speak this truth.
I’m a dumb piece of shit with some delusional tendencies.
I’m a brilliant logistic mystic with illusional appendices.
I’ll give you six reach arounds at once and ignore the middle. Strike up the band but fuck the fiddle. Listen to the wash tub thump, thump, thump. I bought LSD and explosives in the back of a garbage dump. It was good shit. Showy and blowy. Glowy – the explosions made the night snowy.
It was a night HST would have appreciated. Me? I depreciated. My worth because less as I lost the stars in the night blindness from the repeated explosive, percussive repercussions. And every lost desert scream did nothing to redeem.
You were lost. You are lost. You’re repugnant.
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