Ask iAN * Gossip on the Go
Some buddy of mine thinks I'm
in Los Angeles
another friend thought she saw me in Las Vegas
and there is a girl who thinks i'm struttin' down Stratford Upon Avon
with a hickory twist down the front of my trousers
crashing cold glass pints of piss, cider and lager
and my swelled up owl eyes half bleedin'
insulting a skull of a girl born two tits west of slitchawrist street & gaveitolaway avenue...but alas, alas, alas
ya twats was wrong...
I am alone
in this simmering buttery dim and rosey orangish chinese lamp lit room...reading these frosting spackled walls like empty blind braille nowhere songs that don't speak to me...
The fan blows it's cool blade breeze out and across to me...dressed
with pointed shark teeth
for two boots
with cum stains below
and to my left i sit alone with
a golden pint
a korean war silver zippo with a nude woman engraved on it...
a tin type photo in a velvet locket case
a fingernail file with the engraved name spelled wrong
a cat cup full of cigarette butts
1 cock ring
1 dead cell phone
a ring once owned by a mentalist
two class rings from the 40s
a dead friend's red glass bulb ashtray...
On my right
a buck knife from a dead Uncle who feared Death more than the Police
a half glass of rum a girl left on her way out after a disagreement about
fuck, slits, tools, belts, bangs, the dead and the soft suck...
one really groovy green garage sale ashtray
and a dead landline phone...one dead blue bic lighter
a cult cross button
a mad magazine button
a stolen black stone
a blue bird necklace
a necklace from babe shadow
and some volkswagen keys from 1969...
I have heartburn
and I am out of razors
My head feels like a kicked in pencil sharpener
my knuckles feel like a long lost and distant relative's winter hands
my skin blushes at the thought of a certain girl in her Saturday underwear coma poses
and my eyes
are slack-jawed and weary of death
Yet...I do have a friend who thinks i am crawlin' around Texas at this moment
on the hunt for gash and Lone Star beers...and i got a friend who thinks
i might be jabbin' heroin into my veins somewhere in Queen Anne...and of course I got the
long lost pal who thinks I am dead and buried away...perhaps even at Sea....
fuck that guy
and fuck his tennis racket and fuck his fishing pole
fuck his two car garage...
Sitting here alone in the quiet of the morning
before the traffic hit's the faces of the people on the go who bring it...
This soft illustrious celestial cinnamon morning
How i do wish i was a pink grapefruit vagina resting like a starfish under hot tap water.... .*