Hurry

Hurry cat- scratch, its almost 2:00 and the fat bird waits on no one. You tell the doctor not to call me but he stands on the mountain throwing pickles on passers-by, the Heathens, Heathen. Time wears a red robe and the children pull and the threads as they eat the sour cucumbers and yell in anger at the bald horse eating from the bag and even the shoes haven't a kick in the world and the pit in the plum pouts pitiful drops of sweet blood. You holler in silence at the dirty dog because that trash on the table feeds your appetite for salt and fear and he eats the falling rocks that bound up the sea. see. sea. World means nothing to you and the pigs called dinner but everything to the tires and feet and ants. Nonsense? You coward. Fool-heartedly fretting the Myth of Sisyphus and the Notes from the Underground. Never understanding a word of the bark or squawk because you too speak the nothing words of the gods. glory for the sake of glory, you're a glutton for the feel good things. Droppin' dollars on dogs on beats by the kids they call old hats now because they lived in the lemon drop days.  




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