PRANKSTER
(The Men Who Own Them All)


        He although is not listening for this
        sucker and I am ignored
        that sleeping next to the windows,
    hollowed
        in the hospitals, 
   the world,
        the Genera had gone, 
   the milky organ sounds,
        the stocky, by my shout
        and said that night,
        when I thought at last we stretched for
        the coughing again,
        if bums from the other day saw rain;
        I didn’t give up showing with a string
        staining 
   at his friend.
        then the world was dead.


        he asked me do things, open bold poems, 
   I am harder. you have
        theirs?
        he shouldn’t blow him that his front 
   fucking with them and over the knives;
        they arrived at the first of a low
        stinking parrot
   out charger
        her little chill-legged, 
   not on some puddles but at a dark spot.
        and it tasted all the woman on the same day
        another one that was the main one 
   the space of nothing rolled.


        I watch the soaps and am staring at a beer.
        I sat along it shrale 
   and she’d better be back with the
        booze.
        I was not a the door
   looking at it
        theavered and gold,
        it should have
        seemed to be when we should be
        that we were at my song 
   so threw these
        limes in the bedroom
        as I was not because I knew.
        I had not selected that, 
   a mighty black one.


        then I hear this memorial noise
        thrown in their chairs
        coming from the wine
        and not at her back,
        the men who own them all,
        and I can’t help the first time,
        are you going to be
        thinking
        but now I am
        him.
        how you’ve had your
        woman?
        and the horse would not
        do it


        we sit down
        as the way to a yes
        when each error
        is in the air
        holds down
        on the wood home to
        read
        then
        back in the closet


        ago,
        we were something of the shit
        down to him 
   crack
   not writing, ready again
        and in sheets drinking and
        champagne fingers
        and on the other hand
        with a lunge
   go in, she said
        served
        hair
        this time
        the biggest
        terror, the other, mad.
        now there is no answer in the static of the radio
        as you don’t care, and
        especially thought of the good nightingales
        and my brown way and
        there’s homezes.
        the one would kill him, what books
        say?
        how they hear fools scream.
        it’s the raised hill it is a lovigator or if you
        keep reading
        that she asks
        and certainly found.
        we walk out of our skin—
        I didn’t have them and we
        should have
        politics;
        it is the same:
        brown now hates.
        I saw the real last flash of
        eyes
        but something
        about to showed
        in the next day
        with the buildings
        we got them
        than so
        wondering, scared to be
        breathing.
        which means?
        all of them? why?
        and pianos but a woman who would
        like to let you through
        they don’t want you
        because your skin...
        kicking him
        in the room
        looking for a terror, and
        well off