I'm tuckered out
I don't know what the fuck
I've been thinking for so long now
that I've decided to reboot
the system and begin again.

Hello my name is Guy.
I'm a bullfrog with a mean hop.
No I'm not, I'm a fry cook who just can't stop
masturbating in front of cops.
I'm looking for a saccharine ending
but all I keep finding is the sportification
of the pursuit of finding a real solution
for why they keep killing us in the street.

or in holding cells.

once I felt my lymph nodes harden
and I thought I was gonna die
well I am gonna die
but I mean to say it felt imminent

come to find
it just happens sometimes
and no one knows why


drugs are not the answer
only because nobody knows the answer
and if you think you have it
you must realize it couldn't be
because we don't have it
but we do have drugs
and some of them are great
and some of them are really bad
and some are alright

but I keep looking for a bedtime story
but all I keep hearing are the blinds
a shivering voice in my head or the closet
telling me why they keep killing us in the street.

or in Dairy Queens.

when I was young I used to play drums on household objects
with chopsticks in my hands to strike
when I'm old I'm gonna shit my pants
and fill my stomach through a tube until I die

and I keep looking for a circumvention
but I'm rapidly losing my time
I hope I can use it all accordingly
and I don't get destroyed in the streets.

Or on social media.




The Wednesday Fuck It

Fuck your car
And your bank account
And your way-too-expensive studio apartment

Your silly smile
And all your work
And the shoulders you stand on

And kill me
If I ever wear that outfit
In public

You shit-smelling wastrel
You barb-backed desert bug
You fuck-horse upper class idiot

Fuck your stereo
And the drivel it plays
And that pungent cologne you used way too much of

You profligate
You turkey’s son
You gormless, vacuous, thick-witted duck-brained mud mouth


And fuck me
If I ever say that thing you just said 
To me

You pissing sloth
You puddle of cum
You mesmerizing deep-tissue fungal infection

I’d go to the bank
And yank off my dick
Before I’d go to that dinner party you invited me to
I’d rather be dead
I’d rather be alone on the moon
Than listen to what you call “opinions” anymore

And strangle me
If I ever accidentally take you seriously
For even one second


Submitted For Your Approval

You love motorcycles
Even though you can’t drive
You like lying alone with a cat
You’d say you weren’t alone if you had a cat
You like fucking me when fucking me is right

How long would the world take to spin
If I lifted your face by the chin
And I kissed you as if love was dead
But here?

Well spit in my soup
And stab me in my stomach,
I never thought I’d wind up with a life
I always thought I’d randomly die one night
Or alone choking on something in the bathroom
Not here

I’ll walk directly into the sea
With concrete slabs attached to my feet
If you’ll just stay and tell me that again
One more time

Oh, lovely bones
Oh, homely temperature
All I think is “fuck, shit, fuck” and “fuck”
When I think of you any time at all
I hope I keep my shit together at work
But it’s hard

I’ll settle down from my state of decay
to come swing by the place where you stay
to talk to you til the Universe fades
away


I Can't Sing A Love Song

Grinch Piite (grinch 'pee-ite) Noun. -any small debris found floating in one's glass of water.

Love the lord of the underworld
He’s doing his job well
As if he’d chosen it

But shove your fingers in his eyes
If he’s doing his job well
And you’re there for it

And I have not been this fucked up since
I fell out of love with dead presidents
But I’m sure that I’ll find a way out of this
At the ass crack of dawn I’ll be amiss

Riding balloons into the atmosphere
In a cherry-candy dream
And as l ascend
I hold my water to the light:
Grinch piites.

And I have not been this fucked up since
I fell out of love with dead presidents
But I’m sure I’ll find a way out if it 
At the ass crack of dawn I’ll be amiss


Mog Cinders's Son

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