I've got ginger babies in my belly playing kickball. My feet are tight rope tare the walls down babe. Nitric acid makes the hands turn old newspaper crumble- fuck me night time hands. My intestines round the bed-aint-got-no-posts just broken rules: it's for making fuck-love and sleep; thats what the nurse said when my levees were down. Rattle snakes swallow fire crackers make my knees go all ball-baring hit the other hit the other and the other and the other and the other and the other. Bit past the nailes, took the fingers, goin for the jugular. Porcupine I rode on the X-train made a fool of myself in the yellow and the red under the dead by Christmas. Just down the street from all those other girls and whirls and I'm a billboard my ribcage the scaffolding for highwaymen and 357s. The stink from kissing the knives and rambling on up hill to the raven and she-hate-me, he-love-me house, that shit's dangerous. Not wheelshair accessable like the double-wide and the wind breaker pants I was a kid then, a post-no-bills median, hold up the cumulus it's falling on us file cabinets, card catologs, I've been vomit vomit vomit and the chains were hurting my wrists so I bit off my hands. said that. wrote this.
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