So I get this feeling
like I am not suppose to feel this way about writing
As if the very act that gives me so much pleasure
could some how be improved upon
So that for every word I write that I don't think about edit, re think
I write down a scream of shit, that could never be any good.
I enjoyed it too much. The first time.

I get it when I watch and look at you down there
across the street over beyond me
I don't now what you are thinking but I know it's got to be hostil to me
Why cause for one I don't know ya, Don't know ya don't wana know ya
can't say how I would know ya even if I was forced ta.
So I walk alone, down the valley of death eating god biscuits cause I eat shit everyday.

PLEASE ART
STUDENT DON"T BE
AN ARTIST WE
NEED SOMETHING
BETTER THAN THAT NOW


I AM THE
THE POT SMOKING
LOSER LOSER LOSER
IDEALIST
POLITICAL ACTIVIST
UNEMPLOYED
PERFORMANCE ARTIST
PHOTOGRAPHER
WRITER
CRITIC


The Artist dreams when
in standing at the gutter
He sends out the Dream
to the man whose
living the Dream, Fine
woman, House, trips Away,
and tells him how
Amazing the little things are.
Like being Beaten Hard to
a unusual principle thing
then made to reveal an
eternal truth, Jan had a
tight pussy she took
to your fucking like
you were fucking with
a knife.


To fall
to go through
culture, not knowing
and I will fall through
All the other people
out there, bounce and catch
with them and not stay
in the known pay pen,
the friends of Sane acquaintances,
But seek unknown levels
of sanity, for instance
the pickle men are
ok.