a chinese poem at the foodcourt
thru forgotten parking lots & years of weeds crushed under tire tread, the almost automatic doors release a rush of conversation. i eat under asbestos fluorescents – i like broccoli and rice – the floor skuffed beige from basketball shoes. my friend likes kanye but not wocka flocka flame – likes twitter but not facebook – we agree on lovecraft though. the symposium with chrysanthemum tea sums $15.33 – fuck – at home my wallet falls from a bookcase.
spraycans or barbarism
so i had a few mongols around. i needed my hair braided. i chill with barbarians in mat-black nike airs, no laces. we hang out in underground carparks – marking up bmws with arrows – drinking clotted mares milk out of skulls – brown paper bag – talking about their fear of water. they keep dropping bankers though. dragging blood and gore and broken teeth thru my carpet – its pretty embarrassing. every time i turn on the television, all i hear is missing bankers and nothing about the 16th century tribesmen screaming for the great blue-grey wolf as i hose off human flesh under a dark and thundery sky.
where’s the exit for university city?
when i was on the come up i asked for more than a kraft macaroni and cheese (deluxe sauce). i said i couldn’t concentrate with the broken streetlight outside my window. – blink – “that’s not our responsibility” – blink – fucking bureaucracy. a girl smoking clove in black lipstick laughs out her pierced nose. i put down my textbook – drop a couple of codeine – and think of the smiling moon where life is cold but far away from here.