Well Pull My Daisy (If it Wasn't 40 Degrees)
Posted: December 17th, 2004, 4:16 pm
Let me sing my pretty ole' song
little honey and I'll blow you for
a bit. Just a little tit for tat, a
flash man. And there it is. The
words are bleeding passionate
and full of death on the floor.
'S littered w/dirty socks and shit-
stained underwear. Everbody
didja see it?! The ole man he's
shouting, jumping up and down
and pointing this way. Everybody
didja see it?! I laughed and we
got high and smoked blue and
got pale and threw up on the
floor where the mice scitter-scatter
to the corner. Where the broken
one's are always crawling 'bout.
Unabashed and unaware and just
so damned petite and hiding. Don't
tell me all yer problems now man.
Cuz I'm pissing in my pants you see
those ssssilly sirens scared me. Let's
listen awhile as these ssssilly mother-
fuckers try and tell us how to live.
Dammit it's all too noisy and too loud
and too scream your head off and too
bloody murder and too... Ah I'm a
Bodhittsatva now. And I suppose really
I was never writing as much as cursing
at the passing cars, some crazy dame off
59th Street headed southways towards
the sun, up near the subways and the
smell of rank smoke and silent film stars,
railcars and litter, flies, and pages
impatient turning as the angry reader
sits and waits for the sun to set... and
the noise to cease... and the home to near...
and the fucking car to move, man! Sinners
said it wasn't God, it was just lights in
the sky and pushers said it was only 20
bucks a pop but he took me for 25 and
I figured maybe I should just give the
shit up because of course it wasn't
writing it was... typing. Somewhere
along the line I know there'll be good
drink and newspaper editorials stapeled
to the walls and postcards from wellwishers
and people who always wanna know, "D'ou
etes vous?" I can't hear because I've thrown
myself in water to be mystic heated and
refined. Find time, make ryhme! The dirt
'neath my fin-ger-nails biting back in the
dark when the liquor's strong and the
women fast and the children rampid wild
and throwing spit on the floor cuz it
needed cleanin'. God narrated the scene
on the night of my passing as demimondes
sauntered in plastic minis and pink heels.
It's all outside my window and up the street
'bout 2, three blocks and no one knows what
the fuck they're doing anyway. I called in
sick to reality and had a little trip. Now
I'm junkie, hustlin, rustlin, huddlin low
in my own filth for just a hit, just a bit,
flashed some tit, stogie's lit, there's the
pit, touch the clit.
ROCK IS DEAD!!!!!
Who gives a shit.
little honey and I'll blow you for
a bit. Just a little tit for tat, a
flash man. And there it is. The
words are bleeding passionate
and full of death on the floor.
'S littered w/dirty socks and shit-
stained underwear. Everbody
didja see it?! The ole man he's
shouting, jumping up and down
and pointing this way. Everybody
didja see it?! I laughed and we
got high and smoked blue and
got pale and threw up on the
floor where the mice scitter-scatter
to the corner. Where the broken
one's are always crawling 'bout.
Unabashed and unaware and just
so damned petite and hiding. Don't
tell me all yer problems now man.
Cuz I'm pissing in my pants you see
those ssssilly sirens scared me. Let's
listen awhile as these ssssilly mother-
fuckers try and tell us how to live.
Dammit it's all too noisy and too loud
and too scream your head off and too
bloody murder and too... Ah I'm a
Bodhittsatva now. And I suppose really
I was never writing as much as cursing
at the passing cars, some crazy dame off
59th Street headed southways towards
the sun, up near the subways and the
smell of rank smoke and silent film stars,
railcars and litter, flies, and pages
impatient turning as the angry reader
sits and waits for the sun to set... and
the noise to cease... and the home to near...
and the fucking car to move, man! Sinners
said it wasn't God, it was just lights in
the sky and pushers said it was only 20
bucks a pop but he took me for 25 and
I figured maybe I should just give the
shit up because of course it wasn't
writing it was... typing. Somewhere
along the line I know there'll be good
drink and newspaper editorials stapeled
to the walls and postcards from wellwishers
and people who always wanna know, "D'ou
etes vous?" I can't hear because I've thrown
myself in water to be mystic heated and
refined. Find time, make ryhme! The dirt
'neath my fin-ger-nails biting back in the
dark when the liquor's strong and the
women fast and the children rampid wild
and throwing spit on the floor cuz it
needed cleanin'. God narrated the scene
on the night of my passing as demimondes
sauntered in plastic minis and pink heels.
It's all outside my window and up the street
'bout 2, three blocks and no one knows what
the fuck they're doing anyway. I called in
sick to reality and had a little trip. Now
I'm junkie, hustlin, rustlin, huddlin low
in my own filth for just a hit, just a bit,
flashed some tit, stogie's lit, there's the
pit, touch the clit.
ROCK IS DEAD!!!!!
Who gives a shit.