Ambition

We have no ideas.
We have nothing in us, nothing outside of us.
Our skin is made of glass.
Instead of blood and bones, we have only air.
We are supreme emptiness.
We are skinned weasels.
We are broken lightbulbs, bobcat toenails, sugar cubes.
We are sexy horribles.
Aspire to something? What for?
We are glorified gorillas,tangles of could-have-beens...
we are drunken kites, floating, because we are also drunken wind.

Time

At birth, we are kidnapped by Time, and become its slave.

Needless to say, we develop Stockholm syndrome.

A frivolous crab

There once was a frivolous crab
Who thought that his outfit was drab
He took off his shell
And say "Gee I look swell!"
But by seagulls he quickly was nabbed

A rather hungry mermaid

A rather hungry mermaid
Once went fishing in the sea
She said: "I'm so darn starved,
I'd eat a fish as big as me!"

Well by the by she caught one
And although it had no head
She went and chomped upon it...
Drat! It was her tail instead.

What I Have

I have, what I have, you know, what there is to have. There is, to have some things, I have them. There is war, because I have, because I have some things. Sometimes, see things, bright flashes, or things of war, things that come from the other people, the people who are fighting. Someone having a war, someone fighting, is connected to me, because any struggle is my struggle, all struggle is what I have. There I was, on the island, legs blowing up like lips blowing up like love blowing up like war. It’s not so bad, fighting, the ladies love a war hero, and I thought, he’ll blow up me, y’know, or I’ll blow up him…blow up that asshole, no, literally, someone got his asshole blown up. A life with no asshole, what a soldier, I have no more thoughts about soldiers or war. I wouldn’t think anymore after what in the hospital, the nurses, think they know war, what’s a chick with tits know about it. What I have now is okay, I don’t need school, there are some people dying, that’s okay too. You could chop parts of me off, most parts aren’t a picnic anyway. You shouldn’t talk, you fucking manatee eater. You think you can eat a fucking manatee, that’s cannibalism man. What we need is a god, a new god, with a hat on. The new god wears a hat that says ‘Party like it’s 1999.’ I’d send Him to war.

In the soft, soft night

In the soft, soft night
When the pigeons coo
The sweet little elves
prepare the morning's dew
They dress each blade of grass
In a little dew-bonnet
So that in the morning
You'll surely slip on it.