I was raised in a barn.
Have I told you before?
Maybe that's why I forgot to close the door and the kitchen was raided by gnats. Then in came the ants. Now here come the rats.
Gnawing beneath the floorboards under cables and wires,
telephone cords, skeletons and double-edged swords in the pantry.
It's the way of the world, but it can't be life.
The misses the wife the kisses the husband
pukes in the dustbin,
fishes the broke ends of needles from wiltering veins.
When blood leaks on the carpet it stains and
it's hard to clean up.
Harder still, with your head in the sand.
It's impossible, trust me, I've tried.
Though you'll never know until you've died; if you can.
--
What would we give to be laughing and fucking?
And telling the hipsters, "Keep on trucking!"