6204. I SHOULD BE WORTH A BUNDLE

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...?'