La Grande Plaisanterie

hear my words

see my song

the battle is harsh

the nights are long

am i getting tired

of the waiting

for the “IT” to happen

or is it the waiting

that just is, and of itself?

the words still twist on my page

and with what doth quill?

i don’t even know why i wrote that

yet it serves me as both pen and penance

to both mediate and dilute my rage

all i have

are these words

and with them

i’m supposed to explain

every single minute facet

of each and every day

will you like the way i tell it

prolly’ no

we’ll see

how then do i maintain this pose

this wafer thin slice of a life

after life

itself

is dissolved

finite

transposed

all i can see is this lily

one plume of cigarette smoke

is pretty much the same as any other

against this wall of brick

this tide of mortar and sands

parts of me are peeling off

as they try and maintain

an aloof type of cool

this is a special type of dyslexia baby

coming to you fresh off the bus

(toilet seat lids clingy thingy)

i present this as a monologue

but it is in stereo in my head

i hope i sound like i think i do

i hope i sound like i think

i hope

or all of this will have been for naught

i got nowhere to be right now

and now

all of this

all of this time

this time to myself

IT’S LIKE WAITING FOR A HEART ATTACK

now where’s the fun in that?

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