Untitled (Phone Calls)
I lurk in the shadows
As a bomb at the station goes off
I digest my surroundings
And record her every move
I attack my city
When the poets or pope
Come to town
I create love
And conduct the orchestra
Lust will chant symphonies of blood
As my loneliness lasts to the bathhouse
Clear skies protect their loved ones
As blind men communicate about leather
Bible signatures
And an artist’s handicap
Sitting, shivering in the cold
She doesn’t hold me tonight
And last night’s rain is still dripping
Down my arched back
I hear the Beatles pledge to the boy in the Rye
And the Art Killers
in cathedrals
and central park
They come and go
When doves cry
Go home
Melodies in red, white, and blue
Paste my wall
But all I can do
Is put my cock ring on
And fuck Ms. Liberty
Until I cum inside her wet torch
The others sending thanks
And lyrics of the past
I give all
And take little
Robbing the banks
To produce the consumer
I work every day
To beg on my knees
For forgiveness
She has blue eyes today
Baby Blue
Yesterday a shade of brown
But whenever I see her
A mirror is broken
I stay in the night
To feel sausage sliding
And baby back ribs
© 1998 David Greg Harth
97.12.17.23:05:00@NYCNJ
98.02.27.02:28:00@NYCNJ
98.07.20.12:21:00@NYCNJRT