two poems spin could publish for napomo
About Kurdt
I already felt like a junkie, so...
but there's a difference, so I've been told,
between playing the Blues and
living them,
the difference between a mindset
and chord structures
and a style that's not so fashionable.
ain't it a shame shame shame
shame?
The spinning pages dig up your
corpse every April,
as the money keeps rolling in,
and she's what she always was, a drugged-out whore and
a narcissist,
a coattail rider, made over media show...
Speed by, just slow enough not to get noticed,
runny nose hunchback,
in drag and sunglasses and sharp skin-rotting stench,
bleached white,
like a snow-pure prostitute scrubbing
blood and bone
flesh raw
to hide the blemishes she's sure give her away...
like the son she purged
with the umbilical scar of a hangman's knot.
Yet, still holy, in spite,
like the tourettes sermon of a preacher.
All services rendered and
it paid well, and along came boredom and age;
and the true tragedy is the little girl left with Pete's
now trite line
haunting her for the rest of her life;
maybe it's not so tongue-in-cheek,
but look on the bright side
and milk it for all it's worth...
Not to be sappy,
my generation forgets as quickly as they buy
and shit breaks—
the value of the flea market is lost on us...
so here's a deep thought, or perhaps
one more quirky cliche phrase,
you were never a rock god, to me;
you were what i wanted to be.
it was comfortable to be not yet
ten, and safely stuck in my head,
smashing my self in beautiful reckless abandon,
through peaks and troughs.
"I think I'm dumb,
but maybe just..."
4/20
*bubbling bong rip*
shp shp shhure god's all-powerful;
but does he have lips?
whoa...
It was on the fifth—
a day stained grey
by Seattle
April rain showers...
Asked around
and found out
where the junkies
applied.
Needle and the speedball
damage done.
Bargain basement
Junkhead;
and they still sing like him,
fucker,
'cause he's dead;
but what the hey?
hey
my
my
dead man in his box for
two weeks
putrid rot
empty room sets the scene
starving cats picked slow,
slumped
fiend.
She willed the rain. So?
So, are you defamed?
20 hours...
no milk carton photos
But what the hell?
Gotta rest—
escape
hate to feel the
creeping head,
the aching pain in the chest.
The godsmack act is
fun and games
tongue in cheek
("This song is about pain.")
schtick;
'til that shit's sustenance.
Welcome to the machine,
boy.
Did you think it
wasn't
a sludge factory?
Do you feel a little
bitter, now?
Bearing true witness to
this barrel of monkeys,
this dude came down to
touch the mother...
Dude ain't here no more.
On a personal note, Facelift
was my first musical purchase.
That was sometime around '93.
Nine months from now,
I'll be 28.
I'm still young.
