She Got It All But She Don't Do Much Wid It

Walt-Christopher Stickney

u never wanna believe some things.
they go over n over u like a wave
of seaweeds, dust, or blood.
n it gets so-flood 2 yer head
n u believe so much
u begin 2 pray, spit out the window n scream
"god, this ain't the way u meant it, is it?"
n the sadness n disease spreads like her ass
n kool n money n soon there's nothing
life-like left but the emptiness.
n i put on my cap once more.
u kno, the wind..
it's only once in a year, 4 some a lifetime or 3,
when a cunt slips out of a white car
n floats into a parfurnerie all fleecy, soft,
the bodie of a runaway dreame,
smelling like no one's fields,
tits goin easy to a baroque aire
with 2 pipes, a viol, timbrel, n a lark.
n the red drums have always been mine.
n her little ass could handle the presidency in '76.
i thought this.
nothing original or nothing.
but possibly true.
her japanese brain wuz tutored by silk.
well, she lived up n down these private hills.
n she owned some factory in her soul.
i heard the noise,
the engines n whips that secreted timely marshmallow.
mostly the local nuts would get involved n invest
a month or an opera or a comic strip like this one.
if i'd be asked 2 remember i couldn't
exactly i'd say this,
'like a piggy bank u can't break.
enjoy saving n sliding them pennies in,
but, buster, don't expect em 2 add up 2 much.
u'll never touch more than that or again.'
that's as close as i can get now.
that's as close as i ever got!
i spoilt her spoilt ass n she got my pennies.
n she's doin it 2 someone else.
n i kinda admire her 4 it.
a soft lie . . .everlasting.
it's a laugh-on n the world is a lot like this.
some people do it in person . . . rapidfire or over the coals.
some just print "lost n found " inside violet envelopes.

 

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