Gutter

[.Manicrose.]

I feel like a ghost.
Watching the bums twist and stumble in the streets, layers
Reeking of alcohol and shit and piss and chasing shadows
Through the rancid dark of the night,
Makes me want to burrow into the mud
And write poetry on my tombstone.
I long for a mawkish death, a stinking grave.
I call myself an atheist, then sketch Biblical passages
In my arms and lift them over my head,
Crying down with something-or-other. The King has been replaced
By machines, and they too have names, everything has names.
Spit travels around the rim of a gutterhole, a patched covering
That a giant could lift with one cocked finger.
But the giants are dead now.
You want to catch all the filth?
You'll never find a way to kill me.
I too am one of them, only I run in clothes instead of rags,
Heartbeat sluggish, black as I chase pigs down in the night.

[SH☮TGUNHEⒶRT]

It's strange that a couple Friday nights ago I was one of those drunken persons laying in the gutter .

[thewake]

I feel like a toast.
Watching the bread crisp and crackle in the toaster, burn't
Reeking of ash and wheat and butter and chasing the tongue
Through the crispity dark of the toast,
Makes me want to burrow into the jelly
And write poetry on my toaster.
I long for a morning breath, a stinking tongue.
I call myself a toast, then sketch wonder bread passages
In my arms and lift them over my head,
Burning down with something-or-other. The Toaster has been replaced
By another machine, and it's not chrome, everything should be chrome.
Spit travels around the rim of a gumline, a toothed hole
That a man could lift with one toastity finger.
But the toaster is dead now.
You want to catch all the crumbs?
You'll never find a way to butter me.
I too am one of them, only I run in crisipty instead of cracklty,
Browned and dry, blackened as I chase tongues down in the throat.

[.Manicrose.]

Weswammy Wrote:I feel like a toast.
Watching the bread crisp and crackle in the toaster, burn't
Reeking of ash and wheat and butter and chasing the tongue
Through the crispity dark of the toast,
Makes me want to burrow into the jelly
And write poetry on my toaster.
I long for a morning breath, a stinking tongue.
I call myself a toast, then sketch wonder bread passages
In my arms and lift them over my head,
Burning down with something-or-other. The Toaster has been replaced
By another machine, and it's not chrome, everything should be chrome.
Spit travels around the rim of a gumline, a toothed hole
That a man could lift with one toastity finger.
But the toaster is dead now.
You want to catch all the crumbs?
You'll never find a way to butter me.
I too am one of them, only I run in crisipty instead of cracklty,
Browned and dry, blackened as I chase tongues down in the throat.

...Where did that come from?

[thewake]

.Manicrose. Wrote:

Weswammy Wrote:I feel like a toast.
Watching the bread crisp and crackle in the toaster, burn't
Reeking of ash and wheat and butter and chasing the tongue
Through the crispity dark of the toast,
Makes me want to burrow into the jelly
And write poetry on my toaster.
I long for a morning breath, a stinking tongue.
I call myself a toast, then sketch wonder bread passages
In my arms and lift them over my head,
Burning down with something-or-other. The Toaster has been replaced
By another machine, and it's not chrome, everything should be chrome.
Spit travels around the rim of a gumline, a toothed hole
That a man could lift with one toastity finger.
But the toaster is dead now.
You want to catch all the crumbs?
You'll never find a way to butter me.
I too am one of them, only I run in crisipty instead of cracklty,
Browned and dry, blackened as I chase tongues down in the throat.

...Where did that come from?

My warped, sick mind.