One Year After The Breakup

Sex is not a question, but an answer. Love is not a question, but an answer. Goodbye, civilization I’m going to my experience I can’t take much

That’s why love songs are sad, there’s so little left.

Most other songs are over concerned idiocy

Intimacy, is, not possible with the public There’s too much public Lovers can often only hold, because they don’t want to mouth anymore. Goodbye, ethics, morality...

You ’re only worried.

I’m going to my experience . . .

She won’t be coming, she majored too much.

I’ll be going out now All the way Out out

/ have gJitjfe purity left.

The best of my utterances are that of an innocence not knowing of its corruption, pretending, fazing even believing, never beautiful always bleeding, on her skirt our society my tears. . .

When do / rest and forget myself?

There has been real hurt, real cost long before it was even mine.

I can't continue, just a joke above melancholy, never recognizing this, as that.

Jumping out of the fire while shaking my head at catastrophe, my mind is the decomposing ivory tower. A sad twentieth century consciousness, crying from teargas laughing with booze fucking with pills.

Song for October

Putting down everything but our pretenses, conveying weariness as wisdom we made our way through the bars, humming to ourselves.

Me learning it was all in the same key . . . refugees, surrendering to the bar ten der ’s, "Last call ’ ’ before we could go and let our clothes fall to the floor.

/ don’t know when I’ll see her again but she was so sweet that morning, on my leaving giving me an awakening arm, a sad kiss.

Not at all concerned with coffee and cigarettes.

The Human Lament

The bar’s house Iights go up and everybody goes home to piss. The final curses and exhortations are aimlessly

screamed at the building above. Never having found the secret that no taste depends on a particular person and thats what gives hope to all us fuckers, cuntiigkers, and cocksuckers.