Wednesday, June 13, 2007


We do devote a lot of time to fucking—
Doing it, picturing it, and in our sleep
As we lie there, perfectly still and quiet,
We’re fucking her friends and driving fast cars
We don’t own, playing our favorite sports—football
Mostly—then winning and drinking and eating meat

At a table with girls and beer, heaps of meat
That redden our blood and give us strength for fucking.
And after fucking, oh that greasy heavy sleep
We’ve earned, that thick unwinding quiet,
Like a mile long museum of relic cars,
Like a locker room the morning after a football

Game. But it’s not at all fucking and football,
Unfortunately. You gotta earn money for meat,
And if you wanna keep her interested in fucking
You’ve got to have a nice fucking place to sleep.
So we work, settle down, stay still and quiet
While we feel like smashing glass and starting cars

And driving to South America, where American cars
Are royal limousines and the word “football”
Means soccer, somehow. Where world class meat
Costs a buck—hell, you could buy a whole fucking
Cow for ten bucks, I bet. On the beach we’ll sleep
With local girls, and afterwards all will be quiet

Except for the sloshing sea. So warm and quiet
There on the sand - no nightclub music, no cars
Roaring by. Wake at midday, go watch football
At some cantina, a buck for beers and meat
And guac and pretzels. Almost better than fucking.
Stuff ourselves good and feel like going to sleep

Forever, to the distant kingdom of sleep,
Where someone else will make the baby quiet,
Someone else will fix the sprinklers and cars
While we play endless horseshoes and football
And stare for hours at a grill of sizzling meat
Then die one night of a heart attack while fucking.

At last! We’ll sleep on cotton clouds and watch football
All day, surrounded by gleaming cars and quiet
Girls dressed in meat and always down for fucking.

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