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Dylan all the

way.

the night I fucked my alarm clock

once

starving in Philadelphia

I had a small room

it was evening going into night

and I stood at my window on the 3rd floor

in the dark and looked down into a

kitchen across the way on the 2nd floor

and I saw a beautiful blonde girl

embrace a young man there and kiss him

with what seemed hunger

and I stood and watched until they broke

away.

then I turned and switched on the room light.

I saw my dresser and my dresser drawers

and my alarm clock on the dresser.

I took my alarm clock

to bed with me and

fucked it until the hands dropped off.

then I went out and walked the streets

until my feet blistered.

when I got back I walked to the window

and looked down and across the way

and the light in their kitchen was

out.

when I think of myself dead

I think of automobiles parked in a

parking lot

when I think of myself dead

I think of frying pans

when I think of myself dead

I think of somebody making love to you

when I’m not around

when I think of myself dead

I have trouble breathing

when I think of myself dead

I think of all the people waiting to die

when I think of myself dead

I think I won’t be able to drink water anymore

when I think of myself dead

the air goes all white

the roaches in my kitchen

tremble

and somebody will have to throw

my clean and dirty underwear

away.

Christmas eve, alone

Christmas eve, alone,

in a motel room

down the coast

near the Pacific—

hear it?

they’ve tried to do this place up

Spanish, there’s

tapestry and lamps, and

the toilet’s clean, there are

tiny bars of pink

soap.

they won’t find us

here:

the barracudas or the ladies or

the idol

worshippers.

back in town

they’re drunk and panicked

running red lights

breaking their heads open

in honor of Christ’s

birthday. that’s nice.

soon I’ll finish this 5th of

Puerto Rican rum.

in the morning I’ll vomit and

shower, drive back

in, have a sandwich by 1 p.m.,

be back in my room by

2,

stretched on the bed,

waiting for the phone to ring,

not answering,

my holiday is an

evasion, my reasoning

is not.

there once was a woman who put her head into an oven

terror finally becomes almost

bearable

but never quite

terror creeps like a cat

crawls like a cat

across my mind

I can hear the laughter of the masses

they are strong

they will survive

like the roach

never take your eyes off the roach

you’ll never see it again.

the masses are everywhere

they know how to do things:

they have sane and deadly angers

for sane and deadly

things.

I wish I were driving a blue 1952 Buick

or a dark blue 1942 Buick

or a blue 1932 Buick

over a cliff of hell and into the

sea.

beds, toilets, you and me—

think of the beds

used again and again

to fuck in

to die in.

in this land

some of us fuck more than

we die

but most of us die

better than we

fuck,

and we die

piece by piece too—

in parks

eating ice cream, or

in igloos

of dementia,

or on straw mats

or upon disembarked

loves

or

or.

:beds beds beds

:toilets toilets toilets

the human sewage system

is the world’s greatest

invention.

and you invented me

and I invented you

and that’s why we don’t

get along

on this bed

any longer.

you were the world’s

greatest invention

until you

flushed me

away.

now it’s your turn

to wait for the touch

of the handle.

somebody will do it

to you,

bitch,

and if they don’t

you will—

mixed with your own

green or yellow or white

or blue

or lavender

goodbye.

this then—

it’s the same as before

or the other time

or the time before that.

here’s a cock

and here’s a cunt

and here’s trouble.

only each time

you think

well now I’ve learned:

I’ll let her do that

and I’ll do this,

I no longer want it all,

just some comfort

and some sex

and only a minor

love.

now I’m waiting again

and the years run thin.

I have my radio

and the kitchen walls

are yellow.

I keep dumping bottles

and listening

for footsteps.

I hope that death contains

less than this.