i smell
can taste it
lick it
but hell i can't shake it
a sling on my arm
two weeks
one hundred
degree temperature
one hundred
percent humidity
two tee shirts
two god damned
tee shirts
worn too too thin
ocean warm
waves waves waves
i'm drowsy
beached
on a sand bar
raised up
low tide
not far from shore
away from the din
the traffic
humanity's mass
the whole fucking city
i sleep like seaweed
cut-up on shore
smell like dead fish
seaweed that died and fermented
in one hundred degree air
(i don't care)
the whole year
rotted
the long afternoon
of that great lie
pitting
prostitute against whore
(nobody won)
beer bottle shattered
bus through the desert
the sea beating beating
against the hard sand
rising and falling
smelling like a corpse
three days dead
fermenting
one hundred degree air
swollen
the pig that i am
while from up in the sky
falling
a cow
trailing its entrails
singing so sweetly
an old lullaby
