Thursday, December 29, 2005

SADDER THAN NINETY


Jawbreakers
(Dec 28/05)
You remember that time you got that jawbreaker wedged in the back of your mouth, stuck like fucking mad? And no matter how hard I sucked on it, it wouldn’t fucking budge, not a fucking inch. Fucking iffy shit, jawbreakers and fucking pixie sticks and those wax panflutes full of fucking juice. Never did like those much, always too much fucking food colouring in ‘em, made your mouth all fucking rangy and shit. A mouthful a shit ‘n wax and coloured juice, and fuck knows what else. Nothing like a mouthful a shit, ‘cept maybe a friggin jawbreaker, fuck’en crazy, not a fucking inch, no matter what. And fuck, man, you suck the shit out a it, like fucking ninety. Fucker eventually dried up. Yeah, and then you spat the fucker up, like a fucking torpedo or something. Almost got caught in my throat, remember, I almost swallowed it before I spit the fucker out. Almost hit that skinny kid, what’s his fuck, the one with the braces, in the back a the fucking head. Would a knocked the skinny fucker over, fucking braces getting all ranged up in his lips and shit. Probably shit is pants, or worse, piss and shit at the same fucking time. That’d be a fucker of a jam, shitting and pissing all at once. What a fucking mess, shit ‘n piss all over the fucking place. Like fucking ninety. A hundred, maybe more. You remember blackballing that kid’s ass, the one in your pup tent, the red haired kid, in the tent on your front lawn? His fucking underwear got all gummed up and black with the shit. Sticky as a your sister’s fucking panties on prom night. Poor bastard, and his dad being such a fucking shit head. You mean the one who was drunk all the fucking time? Like fucking ninety. Fucker used to park his fucking car, that big fucking boat, a Lincoln or something, on the front lawn. Or on the grass across the street, in that park where the city guys planted those chintzy fucking trees with the plastic sleeves round ‘em. Sad shit, man, sadder than fucking cancer. Or some old fucker shitting his pants on the fucking bus. That’s fucking sad. Shitting and pissing yourself all at the same time. Sadder than fucking ninety, fucking sad shit, man.

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"Poetry is the short-circuiting of meaning between words, the impetuous regeneration of primordial myth". Bruno Schulz
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