Skid Row

My baby came home all strung up,
all shining and beautiful
like a candy wrapper on the streets of Skid Row,
waiting to be played for the system
that camps out for change
even when the dollar has been broken since 1913.

I spent the day smoking it down the filter.
hoping cancer comes to me sooner
and spreads indefinitely to my casket,
pondering how a soul could be so infinite
in a world that couldn't give less than a fuck
about the whole story.

I imagined that God experiences time
like a whisper going a million miles an hour
slowed down to a chop and screw,
enough to make any modern man
blow his brains out
on a crowded bank of bird shit and plastic.

The CEOs pronounce "freedom" as "capitalism"
and Washington's security is for our safety,
and the cops finger their noses for taxes,
and the people hide in their houses for entertainment,
and the children play doctor for excitement,
and I'm never sober for the hell of it.

The Ego Of A Writer

What is the formula to be a writer?
Well, I'll tell ya:

A pair of eyes to flood the brain,
A set of ears to hear the pain,
A pot of coffee to feel the tongue,
A packet of cigarettes to burn the lungs,
A love that hurts more than desire,
A spot of rum to flame the fire,
A can of ash to build a book,
A life that everyone overlooks.

Times a band of dirty socks,
Divided by a history of cocks,
Subtracted by common demure,
Plus a voice of pure allure,
Accompanied by natural luck
And the people that actually give a fuck,
A tour to masturbate the media scene
& magazines to give you a dream.

All together equals the ego of a writer
Draining the fluid from life's lighter.