This Is No Dream Just

There Is Rust In My Mouth,the Stain Of An Old Kiss.

Yes I Try To Kill Myself In Small Amounts, An Innocuous Occupation. Actually I'm Hung Up On It.

But Suicides Have A Special Language. Like Carpenters They Want To Know Which Tools. They Never Ask Why Build. Twice I Have So Simply Declared Myself, Have Possessed The Enemy, Eaten The Enemy, Have Taken On His Craft, His Magic.

This Is No Dream Just My Oily Life Where The People Are Alibis And The Street Is Unfindable For An Entire Lifetime.

My Ideas Are A Curse. They Spring From A Radical Discontent With The Awful Order Of Things. I Play Clown. I Play Carpenter. I Play Nurse. I Play Witch.