the poems of george jones
...generation sucks

this time for real.

there’s something here, but I don’t know
what it is: something between
the static
of boredom, depression, inebriation,
something between
the idleness
of alarm clocks, traffic jams, loose change,
something between
the futility
of job applications, therapists, long lines
at the gas-station,
something between
the something between the something
it breathes and it breeds as a stillborn,
out of the habit, holding on…broken
fingers and all.

it won’t die, and it won’t
win; the belly shows white,
but it isn’t pure.
it knows no purity, incapable
of impurity, a conundrum
of congress, mistake
of mistakes, folly of an epic
plan b.

look close, and you’ll
see it, soaked in the rain
under the awning
of a deli,
hitching a ride on main street, getting home
to baby-sit. listen intently,
gently so gently, and it moans
‘ fuck…shit…goddamn, pig-thief.’

there’s no time to be Lost,
no excuse to be Beat,
Love? I got your Love…
just forgot where I put it.

and if the stranger comes around, telling me
what I’m looking for, selling that
re-cycled meat on splinter-fractured bones
threaded in limp-wrist veins,
tell him I said hello, but really, the freezer’s
I know he’s selling life-insurance
generation sucks,
gonna save me.
tell him to leave his number

on the table.

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Copyright © 1996-2006
bongoboy productions
Last updated on
Monday December 25, 2006