Monday 16 April 2012

BULLSHIT FEVER

on the toilet/of course/and again
no escape from it . . . 

my life's scattered around me in this 
dusty one-floor tank.
like in here;
a newspaper is drying crinkly 
by some socks.
and 
realise
i am Useless/i AM/don't say i'm NOT; we ALL ARE.
and 
i
realise
it is all BULLSHIT; it is . . always/no escape . . . 

and Things/living or conceptual or habitual or delusional

they DIE

they burn out like green bonfire branches disappearing in steam and smoke - BULLSHIT.

now i had a fever.
thought i would DIE/it was BULLSHIT.
and when at last i’d had scotch again/always/no escape . . . 
i knew i should tell her
WE MUST ALWAYS BE MAKING LOVE
but 
it 
is
BULLSHIT; useless always/again/no escape . . . 
and
am 
actually kissing the Bottle
my fever
less than one day gone.


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