Misery is a storm blowing through
town and I’m outside in
the rain tonight.
Everyone is camping. We are intense.
Mussolini’s wife cleanses herself
with Il Douche and they say I am
the one with problems.
The future is a lie I tell myself every day.
I do what I can
but not even flesh-coloured crayons
make me lifelike.
I depend on strong coffee and crispy bacon
for more than just my good looks.
If I tum up one day in a circus eating bugs
and broken glass, will you still love me?
I have far to go.
The car I drive is a hard bargain and
I was left here in ticking in this empty room,
itchy eyeballs and spastic semicolon.
There are lips to service, vents to spleen.
Now when the wind dies down
and I light this cigarette,
you can tell me what I know.