a clown
sits in the window
and shoots heroin
while listening
to nirvana unplugged
and i want to make
a painting
of that image
that can be seen in ultraviolet light
so that when i turn off the light
my guest can’t see the painting
but when i am alone
i can light the ultraviolet lamp
and then see the painting
hanging on my wall
when the clown’s
getting high
and kurt cobain’s
voice fills the room
and that shit’s nice
cause most poetry
sucks dick

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feeling
stupid
while living
is this soviet-grey
jar of november
can’t really breathe
can’t really have sex
cause i’m tired of sex
feeling stupid about a lot
of things
tired
bored
sometimes sad
and writing doesn’t cure anything
it’s just a parachute
it might even be a beautiful parachute
but i’m still falling
and the abyss sits there
waiting for me
and that shit’s
kinda scary

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