When I find a murderer behind my shower curtain…

Why don’t you kick yourself out, you’re an immigrant too.

I just took a spill, or moreover, a drop,

But even Ken Kesey can’t drop this hard,

Some knowledge is – don’t talk to me with your beatnik philosophy, just talk to me, and walk with me,

I’m trying to meet you at the corner so we can chat,

Oh no thanks, I don’t want a cigarette Eve,

But maybe some fruit,

My scales wriggle with excitement,

But the damp fog of the night,

So impenetrably heavy, that the thoughts inside my head begin to close up,

Rendezvous at 23 o’clock a top a tower,

Steam from ships blow as we touch,

And I silently slip in a short line of speech to your unsuspecting hole,

That sticks out from the block on your neck that spits out these crazy things,

You say to me ‘what means be which you say’,

And I verse a reverse, a convert of that church,

I declare ‘no means by which He say’,

You freeze, not having had this mix up of words thrown at you, you stop,

But not me, I laugh, I cackle, I howl with the fierceness of the night,

Crushing, what a blow that word of mouth can bring,

It stings, it twirls, it twists, it manifests inside a declaration,

But I don’t suffer, just carry on and on and on,

Until the painted yellow lines seem to cease and become that all-too-familiar dirt and dust we cling to,

Off the deep end as they say,

With too much to discuss we part,

The last look of an infinite nature,

Yet somehow broken by this encounter of two,

How fast it went by,

Who has too much trouble conforming?

The dawn breaking over is red, but sailors shouldn’t be the only ones to take warning.