a shit at 4 a.m.

I look down:
a pair of balls
a penis that has no one to fuck it or suckle its juice
a set of thighs stronger than 4 men
and
finally
a pile of shit
drowning in toilet water.

and that's it,
that's all,
there is,
shit.

all these poets and their
rhymes and their stories
are all they have -
shit
and when they get recognized
they act surprised
but they all wanted something out of their
writing and it's noticeable in their eyes
and their words
they want to be fucked by the crowd and fucked
by the best women and men and animals,
if they could, and
they don't care.

they produce shit and
the publishers have nothing else to produce
but shit
for without them
they have no income
and nothing will be done.

poor saps.

and I have downed 'nother drink
and it will keep coming
for
this poem is yet to be done
and something says that I will not die tonight,
even if the rope is here or
the bullet is there.

alright, alright,
bukowski was right;
don't write
unless it truly comes roaring out of you.

ha-ha-ha,
fuck that!

I shall let that cunt of a muse
suffer before
I let her get a hold of me;
it makes her that much more impatient when I
get a hold of something to write
onto
or write with.

these half-broken
and broke wimps
have yet to do that to their bitches -
they will sit before their gods and
lick at their toes and
suckle on their cocks
until the juices of ART
come POURING out
of them.

another drink down.
I have killed a cockroach
and a bird tonight,
both by foot.

what's next?

that's right,
another poem and
another woman to please my soul.

or rather
the latter of
the two.

here comes an angel at by window to wish me
goodnight and
I will not let her
speak
nor will she come in.

good night.