friday poem (no edits one go)

We’ve talked a little about the horsepenis and change and luck and the way things come down. There are cartoon voices and a jangle of keys at the station. The penis is abandoned or postponed for old age. Sop up the sperm of these swift cheap words. Through any window piss is raining from the sky. Sons and daughters ninety times out of a hundred piss on the streets with knapsacks and Polish mullets. It is easy to put a hole in the ground and make a great piss. What’s seen is sucked away and what remains is a big Katowice train station toilet. 1zl per entrance and exit. Is this a sad romance? Nothing is really uncovered. Stories directly from the drain. Perhaps doing that, or this, and pissing it all out and everything.

What do you think about a penis with eros seated on your shoulder? What you think about a vagina who says you’re still beautiful? Singer there may be more than one kind of a curse. I have a necklace of bloody teeth for this cure and a complex airport diagram with lights on the bathroom wall. What is the nature of this shutdown? A fermenation of white on dark. Shuttered lid schooled in the skull rubble through which we suck our thumb and don’t tinkle. This is not a result of resisting hell. A hillhigh mouth of grating teeth. We could have a glass of self-indentification with the night else draft a running collage of real zingers. Words spin on the down beat. You are now entering the moon’s white back.