GARISH ENTICEMENTS
(christmas season once again)
I am hiding out in the middle of New York City,
now as invisible as a comma in an encyclopedia's
entry. Who and what to care, I'd never know.
The girls around me wear lace, and I'm not sure
they even know it anymore. The entire world's gone
sexy to me. 'Lights, camera, action', do you know what
that means? Even the Santa Claus at the corner pot,
ringing his bell with some whore for an elf, seems to have
a hard-on about something or other. Not enough pay?
Too cold for his liking? Working too many hours like a dog
to a sleigh? Again though, what care I for him? Or even,
for that matter, for his elf? This is some gigantic porno-shoot,
and even those visiting dweebs from Oklahoma or Dubuque
don't know what they've gotten into. Lights in the sky tell me I
should go to a Christmas Heaven, but it seems like Hell to me.
I'm tired and cold and hungry too, and I haven't shaved
for 240 days. Buy this, or buy that, every sign seems pregnant
with its own inordinate citified mush. Two drunk bastards just
now stagger to the curb, one puking out his brains into the gutter.
'If you can't hold it, don't mold it', I always say. Or is that,
'if you can't drink it, don't think it'? Shit, I already forget what I
wanted to say. Let me step back a bit - it seems that taxi wants
to ram my leg. I listen close, and I hear some idiot say,
'I'm going into St. Patrick's; I really gotta' take a dump.'
The girls around me wear lace, and I'm not sure
they even know it anymore. The entire world's gone
sexy to me. 'Lights, camera, action', do you know what
that means? Even the Santa Claus at the corner pot,
ringing his bell with some whore for an elf, seems to have
a hard-on about something or other. Not enough pay?
Too cold for his liking? Working too many hours like a dog
to a sleigh? Again though, what care I for him? Or even,
for that matter, for his elf? This is some gigantic porno-shoot,
and even those visiting dweebs from Oklahoma or Dubuque
don't know what they've gotten into. Lights in the sky tell me I
should go to a Christmas Heaven, but it seems like Hell to me.
I'm tired and cold and hungry too, and I haven't shaved
for 240 days. Buy this, or buy that, every sign seems pregnant
with its own inordinate citified mush. Two drunk bastards just
now stagger to the curb, one puking out his brains into the gutter.
'If you can't hold it, don't mold it', I always say. Or is that,
'if you can't drink it, don't think it'? Shit, I already forget what I
wanted to say. Let me step back a bit - it seems that taxi wants
to ram my leg. I listen close, and I hear some idiot say,
'I'm going into St. Patrick's; I really gotta' take a dump.'
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