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ah she can count, you can say that of her,
finger to finger to tounge to fingertip.
she looks out the window, she only sees
the reflection of her white light on the glass
and like john rechy's boys, don't fill her
up, those numbers, just numbers. hope
she don't catch it, like john rechy's boys
like the boys she's a number to, pooh face
(smackin' en em down, those dollar bills,
one hundred, two hundred.. and I can hear
those figher planes, you know I can
almost hear those fucking figher planes)
got the alibies down, knows con games
and shell games and clue and monopoly. she
always loses at risk. so she won't play it.
make money buy property but sense of it all?
park place, don't land there, the rent is quite dear.
community pot or private dear, wifey, quiet.
'let me tell you the reasons i don't write.'
i have played, i do play, lets keep on playing.
she fucks and she howls just like a demon,
after you've beaten that annoying white sunshine
right out. no patience for tantra, for kama sutra
for it coiled white hot like a filament, it takes one
to screw in, but two to unscrew it. don't burn
those wet fingers, it takes hours to cool. don't go
there, baby, don't go there baby it hurts. it might
scar, might leave a mark that there is no erasing
cauterization not pretty, but it will close the wound
i can see that you know that time of healing,
see puss on the wound from the shit you rub in it
imagine that deep and that hot and that searing
to be known to be seen to be more than reflection
no, she wants red hot, now, red blooded and quick.
No Ophelia more Hamlet, time? she's done, tick.
soft red falls on the sidewalk and tummys
and thighs under Oude Kerk's neon cross,
you'd traverse those bridges humping canals
a brown honderd gulden for your favorite abuse
like old Hitler's dog there's a film of him kicking
i know love is kicking, so love me. i need it.
she swallows the darkest part out of storms
(they're her life) and then says 'not in my tummy'
but me, i'm all sunshine, you, you're all black
how much for that game again? it comes cheap, smack
think in those windows you can buy your hope back?
conjugate this phrase, you'll use it a lot.
i have paid, i do pay, i will keep on paying
if she only got paid, you'd know what to call her,
but she's less of a working girl, more of a client
she's a bad boy, a frat boy all made up in fluffies.
she's down in the end zone, but gone wrong direction.
in on a secret for making the team? it's all about hustle
and carrying balls, know which side you're playing on.
fill her up with your beer, fill her up with your football
shoot pool, or clay pidgeons, or do laundry together
pick your shorts from your ass crack while hair
sprouts from your ears, don't forget the romance!
tell her why your tooth's missing, tales of 360's
how human, see the philosophy, poetry, politics...
in a loose wheel or hammering your nuts on the rail
knows her type, knows her typing, sees them
coming and going, know with her eyes closed,
best way to know'em! i know that for sure.
close your ears, close your mind, your carport, your lips
don't move your emotions, babe, just move your hips
can she type? she can type, she can type slowly.
ah there's nothing to it once again, this once and always,
there 'aint nothing to it. sit still, don't do a thing
but then again that's what they pay her for.
she's paid not to go nowhere, she's not paid to move
she's worked it all out, she's a hot calculator,
you can see in her eyes how she's done the math
she knows the exchange rate and her trade in value
the boys all say what mathmatical eyes she's got.
they stare deep into 'em and see they see the numbers
oh my god, i'm in love, it looks like my team jersey.
(which she could fill out better, but she's got a hot ass)
that's what they're thinking those wingmen those legmen
but the breast men won't have her. oh well, their loss.
you're not responsible if you let her make the pass.
and the locker room boys draft her for their team
to build out the portals for their new war machine.
she may not make art, but she's made herself miserable
lucky for her, this year misery sells.
and the music that's in her, will it ever come out.
are they embarassing sounds, sunshine. naw
she's got all the products to take the place of art.
you're playing at risk, sweetie, like it or not
move armys, sweep continents, roll the dice roll the dice
you know what those sports are a metaphor for,
penetration, bomb pass, and slaps on the ass.
you know they can't wait to pile up on the grass
just what we're lookin' for, got the skills, got the pretty
bend over darlin' while while we get our cock shitty.
maybe one by one, but she'll take on the whole crew
she might know her numbers, but she's prolly lost count
how this for a cop out? 'i'm thowing about'
she's a slave and she knows it, i like that.
but she loves the leash, and the cuffs and the jailor
un-re-quited love of the whore for the sailor,
he's gone away, matey, pal, buddy, friend,
'if I cry hard enough will he kick me again?'
she wants what she don't want and don't
want what she wants. coldest of all, she is
what she hates. he's not using me silly, i'm
the one using him. the widow reflection is kind
to her, sunshiney face. you are right about one
thing, he will never leave you if you become him
she's split right down the middle picasso's girl
in the mirror, a caryatid, or maybe more like it,
she's carrivagio's boy, himself as young bacchus.
Even checked it with the higher-ups, right
to the directors. back to work, back to tv
and those more carnal distractions
it all comes too costly, those numbers again.
she is bought, she is sold, she is spent
whatever the case she's no budget for love.
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