G, 1996 - 00 David Harth G, 1996 - 00 David Harth

Guns

Where are the guns!?

They destroy me

They eat at my soul

They make me piss in my pants

Yellow-stained jeans

 

Where are the guns!?

They make me nervous

They make me cum

They make me hard

Between the thighs

 

Where are the guns!?

The leftover scent

The touch and glare

The overwhelming blend

If I do so, I dare!

 

Where are the guns!?

They penetrate my mind

All my senses, all the time

They revolt me

And make my puke

They disgust me and make me fall

 

Where are my guns!?

They sing to me

In midnight dreams

On wet pillows

And cow cummed disease!

 

Where are my guns!?

They make me write and paint

And listen and explore

And kiss and kneel

And travel all around

 

Where are my guns!?

They make my death closer and closer

Near I come

Oh, Where are my guns!?

 

 

 

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.03.11.16:36:27@10036NYC

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G, 1996 - 00 David Harth G, 1996 - 00 David Harth

god

god

 

you bitch

you demon

you make them believe

you make me a product

you make my mother beg

 

you are dirt

scum from my cock

you are a bum’s last urine

and you still come back

 

god

I don’t refer to you

I don’t capitalize you

I visualize you

I imagine you

I can picture you

 

god

you are evil

you are a baby’s breath

lost from a beaten husband

you are a hanger for pros

and lust from nukees out west

you are a marcher and become a face

of a priest or rabbi

even a CEO

 

god you are my television

you are a cleaner

you are my servant

because I form you

I mold you

you are only my thoughts

which I do not believe

do not believe

 

god you are a whisper

you are my love’s gate

and cage

and cook

 

god you do not exist

I am without a chest

I hear the sounds

the revolutions

and repetitions

 

but all you can give me

is parting seas

books of words

clothing full of assholes

and emblems representing your existence

 

I say fuck you

as I eat at your heavenly body

your soul

your belief

your printed matter

your trees and nicely cropped bush

 

I say fuck you

as your servants beg of you

kneel to you

bow to you

I do NOT capitalize you

or socialize with you

 

I put my hands out

and milk you of your existence

and nurse you as you die

upon my shoulders

 

god!

 

 

 

© 1998 David Greg Harth

98.01.24.17:51:00@10036

98.01.29.04:26:00@07430

[NOA&S]

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