An arrest is unavoidable
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I challenged the bloody one
the Mexican Jew and Tom the literary that
frightens serial killers
to write one a day for a hundred days
no focus on quality just production
preventing blocks and depression
Christopher, the bloody one, fades in and out
trading oxy-contin dullness and whiskey chasers
when no ones looking
but that spark that simmers just under there
somewhere, when it’s stoked just right will
smoke eloquence for his divining and spill
words of sagacity not righteously his by tenderness
of age
since his ass is always hurting and he stands every
where he goes
the likelihood that a show of caustic rancor or a pleading
will spill into view within a drink or two is closer to 1:1
bring your camera it’s always a treat
Moskowitz eating Mexican pizza 3000 miles away
married a family and counts on confusion to make his writers dick
hard, he told me he was writing in the car in the
parking lot of Osco’s, fearful the wife would catch him fingering
a syllable a little too left of right of his perfected
stick’,
hiding his affair behind trick phases and ambiguous lines
that sound pretty, but intended to cause sleep and
fane interest in favor of more intriguing conversation
he secretly decodes and submits his own orphan children
all of them charming to a sore and horrible in their own
right,
he’s the perfect asshole. but burns incense to Buddha and
keeps kosher by washing his hands and his dick after every
piss, he couldn’t be more orthodox and he won’t eat pork
but carnitas is ok--with green sauce
tom’s a literary and it shows. professionalism is a no
wrinkles kind of thing, not wash and wear, just no wrinkles
he saws rocks in half and collects dead things in the basement
I even heard he had a pet bat, but I swear, I have no idea where
the blood came from
I think he’s a superhero of the Sherlock Holmes kind, not Watson,
a cape and double billed cap with a ripper’s or strangler’s delight and
no regard for the 7% solution
he delights in the morbid and would write more, but the patriot act
can be no friend to his lurking, don’t let the glasses fool you
so everyone is writing
digging deep for the hairy paw or balls
and trying to rip one more truth from a
bag of lies and waking the muse for a sprint
to the end
normally, I wouldn’t be concerned, but I think an
arrest is unavoidable.
J. Masuda © 2004
the Mexican Jew and Tom the literary that
frightens serial killers
to write one a day for a hundred days
no focus on quality just production
preventing blocks and depression
Christopher, the bloody one, fades in and out
trading oxy-contin dullness and whiskey chasers
when no ones looking
but that spark that simmers just under there
somewhere, when it’s stoked just right will
smoke eloquence for his divining and spill
words of sagacity not righteously his by tenderness
of age
since his ass is always hurting and he stands every
where he goes
the likelihood that a show of caustic rancor or a pleading
will spill into view within a drink or two is closer to 1:1
bring your camera it’s always a treat
Moskowitz eating Mexican pizza 3000 miles away
married a family and counts on confusion to make his writers dick
hard, he told me he was writing in the car in the
parking lot of Osco’s, fearful the wife would catch him fingering
a syllable a little too left of right of his perfected
stick’,
hiding his affair behind trick phases and ambiguous lines
that sound pretty, but intended to cause sleep and
fane interest in favor of more intriguing conversation
he secretly decodes and submits his own orphan children
all of them charming to a sore and horrible in their own
right,
he’s the perfect asshole. but burns incense to Buddha and
keeps kosher by washing his hands and his dick after every
piss, he couldn’t be more orthodox and he won’t eat pork
but carnitas is ok--with green sauce
tom’s a literary and it shows. professionalism is a no
wrinkles kind of thing, not wash and wear, just no wrinkles
he saws rocks in half and collects dead things in the basement
I even heard he had a pet bat, but I swear, I have no idea where
the blood came from
I think he’s a superhero of the Sherlock Holmes kind, not Watson,
a cape and double billed cap with a ripper’s or strangler’s delight and
no regard for the 7% solution
he delights in the morbid and would write more, but the patriot act
can be no friend to his lurking, don’t let the glasses fool you
so everyone is writing
digging deep for the hairy paw or balls
and trying to rip one more truth from a
bag of lies and waking the muse for a sprint
to the end
normally, I wouldn’t be concerned, but I think an
arrest is unavoidable.
J. Masuda © 2004
