there’s blurred birds on the nightshift
stumbling upon the mahagony table
with graveyard phenazine eggs
instable insurance contracts
and papers and notes behind the tombstone.

some folks say things about desirelessness
chewing on chopsticks with bottomless butter
and bullocks and buggers and bugs are fading.
the next big thing prepared with the machinery of night, and bling bling
singing all the anthems of glue to
a nationless butterfly framed in
a fraud freudian bolster
stalked by cleverlooking youngsters drooling for pepp.
smoking the buttered ones
with no tobacco taste

yeah times have changed darlin
times used to be better when all showed innumerous signs
before resting on laurels not earned themselfs
not deserved
but taken with a slimy smile of standby joy.

zigzaggingly zen men on their path helping to forget
fruits that do exist in different tides
of different lifes and feed them with nothing
but respect.

walkin down the pigeon way with a gray velvet hat
losing the game biting the bloody lips, bloody.
and falling down,
depressed and craving
wearing weary slacks.
bought out of town in those super sympathetic
gipsy shops.
there’s a tipsy lack of background liquor
at the tention top.

like wasted hair dressers for dogs with fresh washed hair and cucumbers on their eyes
counting dalís distorted clocks in their minds
and take a new tab every second after another hound has passed.
Napping until death.
Hmm what a jolly time to observe those painters of life
and no one gets it
not even me
like sunk sea ship with my tullamore dew
on the deck of displace.