I SHOULD BE
WORTH A BUNDLE
'Yeah, you will be - when dead.' If that's
got to be the last thing I hear this year, I'm
going home early. And now. Just another
fruit-of-the-loom pie-face reveler talking
his breath at me. So sickening, like a bad
cat howling, to hear how dead writers get
ahead. Well fuck all that then, 2014, and
15 too. I have to zoom ahead already to
have make any sense : playpen revelers,
that girl with three teats, the two guys with
their dicks and the fellow swilling gin.
Oh man, what kind of shape I'm in.
Let me in. Let me in. I'm out too late, and
now I have to eat before I sleep - to hell
with the new year and all that. It's another
accumulated dance of masques, and people
all running helter-skelter, feeling each other
up, trying to get laid, finding a date when a
date's already had - and isn't this all about
a date anyway? Hell, I don't know.
I'll be worth a bundle when this is over. Make
my gravestone a Cadillac? Etch my last words
on the big granite stone : 'What the fuck?
What the fuck? What the fuck...?'