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DEBBIE KIRK
Rock the vote, kids It seems that people take great pleasure In bitching at me Bitching at me because I’m not very politically versed Or because I’m not patriotic They say I’m dissident and apathetic Sometimes they even say Things about my clothes Vote vote vote I voted And I’m pretty sure that my vote Was sent thru a laser to the center of the earth To be used as scrap paper for tic tac toe For people from the x-files, soldiers, and maybe even A few innocents. Get involved I’m as involved as I ever want to be And I’ll take any of you fuckers right here Right now On the floor I don’t need a weapon My teeth are sharp And I can cast a net around you with my words Leaving you speechless and making you piss In the pants your mother bought you at sears My culture is made up of primarily Other misanthropes who sadly can’t afford The simple household ingredients needed To make bombs These people who tell us to vote Live for morning coffee and paper clips And they spend an awful lot of time Complaining about how much they hate their jobs They have affairs They play golf They are puppets and they spend their whole lives Praying to and waiting to meet The great puppet master in the sky (insert theme music) I’m fairly sure that I know more than I care to And I would like to put it all in a wheelbarrow And shovel it into the right side of my brain But I lost my map And I can’t remember which side Had the flashing light that said Freedom. The Fucking Desert So, I was driving my van thru the desert No fucking AC, right? No fucking sense And those were some beaten down bass low times I was a traveler Never a tourist But the tourists rest stops Were statistically more dangerous Because of travelers like me, The traveler I was in that van With no fucking AC I walked right into Mel’s Diner and cried to Flo that “the wind was blowing my van all over the road and I thought my tires were bad and the heat the heat oh god the heat” she finally just put away her notebook and brought me a beer I had tons and tons of questions for Flo Scientific questions, weather related questions, geographical questions, mechanical questions, questions about the best way to bury a body… But I just wanted her to validate my meter For one more day Just to shake me and tell me “you’re not gonna die right this moment, you little pussy.” Cause I had the “bitchin party van” With a kickass Top o the line Sound system Which was later stolen out of my hearse Ironically, In the snow. I stripped down to my bikini top Gulping very warm water As it wouldn’t even stay cold From one rest stop to the next And I listened to Johnny Cash So fucking loud That I quite possibly directly contributed To the dehydration of those around me Those tourists The bikini top and shorts Weren’t cutting it I took off my stained wife beater Filled it with ice And tied it around my head. Rolling thru the desert Tattooed hung over Eyes and lips Make quite a spectacle out of myself really And it was hot I saw fucking visions I saw those one of those cartoon mirage’s of a island paradise I could see the ice evaporating I drove all night I drove all day Either way it was fucking unbearable But I did it And the whole goddamn time I was wearing this wife beater around my head Tattoos blended into a skull and crossbones bikini And I was singing “ Going back to Jackson” Like a maniac And to this day I can’t listen to Cash Without getting thirsty for some Moon shine Christmas Day Drunk It’s Christmas day and my studio apartment Cut out of a garage is full of generic cigarette smoke And I’m blaring metal Bad metal, like the kind you listened to in 8th grade With your friends your friends you had friends And I’m looking for a granola bar I stole from the corner store To stop my stomach from hurting Too much hurting Sometimes I get my heart and my stomach Confused And I always fall apart if no one is looking If you are desperate enough you’ll smoke stems And its just one of those kinda days When its time to empty the ashtray And let the light fall thru the window And land on your hand and it Cuts Quiet If I had a relative, I guess I’d take me a superstar We could play Battleship today And I would share my batteries with you And I would share my batteries with you You’d sink my battleship And for just a few seconds I forget That I am so fucking lonely Subject matter of a love song I would write Slinking across the floor Leaving my scales to mark my territory And scratch my most sensitive parts Making me stretch (the truth) If I were to write you a love song The subject matter Would be about falling down Holding hands. I mean like A morbid kinda intimacy Only capable by poets and animals. Debbie Kirk is a 31 year old writer\artist in Austin Texas. Check out her website at www.debbiedkirk.com |
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© 2005 Underground Voices |
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