ms. liberty and the butchered boy
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the simple sounds of animals and the simple strokes of hands
the simple things through deepness rings with the cries it understands
so the butchered boy makes his nasty ploy with a masterstroke of twist,
and ms liberty bends to play the flute but can still hold out her fist ....
the only things that slap my face are poetry and you
the only things that matter are the things i cannot do
we’re bad, so mean, the worlds’ unclean. how stupid and naive
just meat and heat like animals despite what we believe
no bridges, walls, or shopping malls, no politics or science
no issue, view, or other you can inflame my defiance
the nice, the good, the understood, we show these to the rest
but nasty scenes and cruel extremes we hide and love the best
the utter trust and melting lust are awful when you’re this
the utter you, face wrenched in two is so hard to resist
meat-cleavered soul, big fucking hole, he’s leaking on my shoes
on purple suede i’d call that shade: “my boy, he’s got the blues”
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