tony pierce.com + mary!
busblog at gmail dot com

nothing in here is true

 


   Tuesday, January 25, 2005  
"i bet i dont get into rad school"

tommy burrowed himself into
the weird nightmare
oblivious to pipes being banged as warnings
deaf to the shouts of encouragements
equipped only with a cassette copy of motely crue's
too fast for love,
a loosely rolled collection of
mexican shake humbolt green sticky nice
and twigs
and a daypack filled with dozens of soft and melting
milky way dark candy bars

a chinese tune ching chung chwanged in his head
and then crazy drums
and he swore he could hear his mother calling out to him
as he made stoney love to his fiancee
while a muted tenor blew
and cherry blossoms floated

down


down

upon his sweaty white pimpley scratched back.


her name was elisa and she was sixteen

16.

six Teen. Jeeze!

6 + teen

i am sixteen

she screamed

i screamed



he had other things to do with his time

like nothing



so he did it.



brevity.

brevity my ass the colon argued

i dont care how nice you thought those two plops wound up
how strong and straight and clean and perfect
they became and are

and wont be.

we still have something that needs to come out
inside me.
and elisa said what is it

tommy took out a melted bar of candy
and rubbed it all over himself
and then another
and then one more
he walked over to a hive where the hornets lived
looked at elisa and kicked the hive
and then kicked it again

it fell

some pissed hornets flew out
and then just like at a jewish wedding tommy stepped
right ontop of that hive and squooshed it flatlike

sometimes in weird nightmares the shadow just wants to
chase not catch you
the dark wants to scare not kill you
evil wants to play not eat you
and girls want to sex not love you

she was sixteen with the finest blonde hair
and perfect lips
sixteen going on
sixteen

and that fine hair was so light that when
it fell over her eyes
you could see her close

and then

open them

butterscotch windshade palms on my shoulderblades
airconditioned tv room downstairs its nearly noon
dancing like an imbecile, huffing like a dirty muffler
dressed up like a roman disco
laughing like a broken hiccup

this guy hates me + so does this guy + she loves me


Previously on busblog...