s**t knows maybe farce (Working Title)

A Poem by Raphael H. S.

What's all this then?

It's nothing really. Just a mad capped salary s**t for brains a*****e in a ditch gutter shrieking to the high heavens about all this stupid buffoonery that lies here on the white nothing electronic new age bung hole, sifting all this all the so many idiosyncrasies and demented midnight mumble thumbs, bumble bums and high as s**t balls anthem speakers, the radio talkers, the false superstars, the overt and overly sure, the too sure, they maybe sure and horrifically sure know littles, Dr. do sometimes something important's but mostly criss crossed arms and legs and those little railways in the brains, think they're called neuron silly straw Tron tubes. And I belch. And I urinate too. All of it, I do all that in the mornings and in the musty afternoons spent repeating the same word over and over, as I'm sometimes compelled to do as when I was in kindergarten where I wanted to grow up and be a G. I. Joe without the elastic waist bands.