stacks of photographs
stained by bottom glass
where have you been
Benjamin

children boxed in sand
stained by ice-creamed hands
just like we had seen
Benjamin

tuning
she needs tuning
she’s out of key
can’t you see
i can’t play her anymore

broken
she needs mending
her body cracked
i can’t take her back
there are pieces on the floor

sunshine
she wore sunshine
on her fingers
and on her toes
i undressed to feel her clothed

moving
she needs moving
moving ‘round the world
moving like a girl
moving where i won’t follow

Kid Pistol was born a razor blade
to White Badfather
on the day of Memory March
Nig Thomas was Kid’s older friend
they’d carve their own picks
and hunt caravan tits
out in lands of cows and hens
Nig and Kid were ramblers

all about their land was near as hand
from gas to market
from barber to butcher
from school to penitentiary
was a shoe toss

it really wasn’t easy
to get lost in ramble
yeah, but Nig and Kid
knew their way
well enough to lose it…

Kid Pistol was born a razor blade
to White Badfather
on the day of Memory March
Nig Thomas was Kid’s older friend
they’d carve their own picks
and hunt caravan tits
out in lands of cows and hens
Nig and Kid were ramblers

all about their land was near as hand
from gas to market
from barber to butcher
from school to penitentiary
was a shoe toss

it really wasn’t easy
to get lost in ramble
yeah, but Nig and Kid
knew their way
well enough to lose it…

chance
by chance
the day like life
is a route
i shoot
i roll
waiting
for the flower girl
to come out the shower
we haven’t met in a year
last time
i was on top
i almost got caught

now
she’s living
out of town
got a garden
and a cat
i’m out on her porch
lighting
my roll off the torch
lit in the grass
wind carries
the smell of gas
waiting
for the flower girl
to come out the shower
to douse her body
from within
in flowers and in gasoline

it’s the hour of killers
and alien breeders
it’s the hour of update
and reconstitution
to justify rape in the work place
to leave room for mass suicide
and to underline freedom
of speech and media
they’ve got shit in their teeth
and privacy’s wreath
they’ve got blood on their pens
and on their camera lens
respect is lost
and i pity this world
for waking me early
to realize wrong

i pity you all
left to nothing
discriminated
by your own soul
left invisible
your clay brain a spit bucket
your trade hands disposable
your dick tucked up your ass
as so not to offend
perched up a McDon’s sign
weather-cock to the world

i pity