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Thursday, September 09, 2004


I'm playing Jonathan Mayhew's stupid avant-garde poet tricks game, with a poem in Spanish I only dimly remember.

Student Union

Crammed in the corners, the ghosts were more than annoying.
I didn't join the communist party except to bum cigarettes
And meet chicks, but these things stuck to the walls and ceilings

Like wisps of tissue paper, flapping vaguely and inflaming my
Fellow students with a sense of historical justification. Eighteen
Year olds are not supposed to die of anything. They are supposed

To live and live and suffer blueballs and the dementia of wine
Spritzers. Yes, the armbands were all well and good, they gave
Us a sort of macho cool that set us apart from the hippies, but

It came down to this: if I was making out with a girl only to
Turn around and find the shade of Bakunin staring lecherously
At her ass, daring her to go blow up a bank, I would rather be

A running dog, wear my top hat high, my morning coat on
My wedding day and dress that ass in Gucci and have her mistreat
The maid. I didn't know it then, but everyone else felt the same way.

posted by Reen |link| 0 comments

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