when purse allows

There’s nothing that makes me crazy

like your writing.

I find myself wanting to be near you,

I find myself wanting to be walking

next to you.

I even find myself wanting to know

more about people living next to you.

How about people leaving close to me?

I don’t care about any of them.

They’ve called the police on me after

I’d slapped one of them loud the other

evening when I thought no witness saw


when in my self indulgent state

I thought I was Lord Almightly and that

nothing on this earth could ever stop me

from being who I’m

who I’ve always been;

a violent person with a scar,

a set of big rabbit teeth of which when

my purse allows,

I’d like to have them fixed.

And don’t you ever forget that every woman

who leaves me is called a tramp not because

she is but, because I’m so scared of the world

that I find it hard to cope with being by myself.

I had to burn a woman’s house to make my feelings

known almost a decade ago because I didn’t want

her seeing other men.

My friends call me an arsonist but I don’t care

because I, like them, we’ll surely burn in hell like

the devil and his satanists.

Do I hear any of you devils say amen?

Well, sure, amen.


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