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"Cucumbers," "Block," "Spit," and "Assessment": This Fuckin' Guy Discusses Himself and His Process, Engages in Self Promotion, And Comes Up With Something, Maybe, While Listening to PiL.

Damn, my last poem was almost two fucking weeks ago?
Did you fucking miss me?
I fucking missed me.
What the fuck have I been fucking doing?

Well, my job, for one thing--
I do have a fucking job,
And a daughter,
These are matters of public fucking record,

But the real and actual reason
I've been a little missing in fucking action
Is I haven't had a fucking thing to say.

Or like maybe the things I might have thought
Would make good fucking poems
I'm not so fucking sure about anymore.

Like last fucking Sunday,
A week ago today,
I was at a fucking party,
And we were talking about cucumbers,
And I was like, "Fuck yes, cucumbers,
They are very  really fucking refreshing and shit,"
And so on,
And yes, I really do fucking like fucking cucumbers,
But even as I was talking about it,
As Ray's motherfucking party,
I was thinking, "Fuck me, This Fuckin' Guy
Is really scaping the bottom of the motherfucking barrel."
And I could tell that I wasn't the only one
Who fucking thought so.

I mean, no fucking offense to motherfucking cucumbers,
Which really are fucking awesome,
But, I just don't think so, you know?

And it's fucking been like that for some fucking time now.
I think I'm running out of fucking steam, is all.
Don't know if I'm fucking done, or just taking a motherfucking break,
Or what the fuck.
And who the fuck knows what's going to happen next?
Maybe tomorrow, four or five new motherfucking poems.
It's fucking happened before.
But I fucking realize, of course.
These four are not four.
"Spit" is the only real one today.
Just fucking saying that I fucking know this, ok?

Because I don't want to be one of those motherfucking ratbastards
That go on and fucking on about being fucking blocked
Even though maybe I'm fucking blocked.
I could give a shitload of motherfucking excuses as to why, right now,
In this motherfucking moment,
It's not fucking working for me:
I'm in a coffee shop,
But so fucking what?
I've written some good fucking poems in coffee shops before.

And I'm using my phone and bluetooth keyboard to write this shit,
Because that's the best I've fucking got right now,
My laptop is motherfucking heavy,
Tired of carrying that motherfucking around all the fucking time,
But so fucking what?
I've used my phone and keyboard to write fucking poems before,
And it was fucking fine.

And the motherfucking mp3 player
That I brought with me
To drown out the motherfucking noise in this motherfucking coffee shop,
Has absolutely no classical fucking music on it,
In fact, it has no fucking instrumental music on it at all,
And it's hard to write poems when I'm fucking distracted by vocals

This is all bullshit though:
I've made a good music choice, I think:
The third PiL album,
And after that, the second.
Great fucking shit on both those fucking records
(Listening to "Francis Massacre" now, which practically is a fucking instrumental),
So I've got no fucking excuses.
No fucking excuses at all.
So....Fuck me.

I'm moving on to the next motherfucking poem now,
If that's all motherfucking right with you. Okay?

Okay, this is maybe worth mentioning:
I'm walking toward the subway yesterday,
And as I'm fucking passing a motherfucking homeless guy,
I hear him hock, and then say,
"Can you spare any motherfucking change?"

And I know this fucking game, I fucking think:
I give this motherfucker some money,
Or he fucking spits on me,
Or maybe I give him some fucking money,
And maybe he spits on me any fucking way.

I say, "I'm sorry,"
Because I fucking suck,
Because I'm fucking texting California
To ask about the fucking flight to New Zealand
(Did I tell you I'm going to fucking New Zealand in February
With LoveyDove? Well, I motherfucking am. Fucking, nice right?)
(If I saw you, I probably did fucking tell you,
Because I'm fucking telling everybody.)

But the fucking point being,
I'm too fucking busy with my texting bullshit,
And my stupid bullshit busy motherfucking life,
To help a fucking obnoxious,
But obviously needy motherfucker,
Who is in a bad motherfucking way,
And maybe fucking crazy, or fucked up on drugs, or both,
Which, by any fucking measure,
Makes him way the fuck worse off than me,
And would it have fucking killed me to stop
And give the motherfucker a dollar?

Apparently, I must have fucking thought so at the time,
Because all I did was fucking say I'm sorry,
And veer off to the right,
In the hope that his spit would fucking miss me,
Which maybe it fucking did,
Or maybe he didn't actually spit on me,
But it sure fucking sounded like it did,
It sounded like he spit right onto the back of my motherfucking coat,
And I was in such a good motherfucking mood,
I just turned around, while continuing to fucking walk
And I almost motherfucking smiled, I think,
And figured I would just check the back of my coat
On the fucking subway platform.
I simply didn't give a fuck at all.

But he did:
He was like,
"That's right motherfucker-come back here."
(I think he actually did say "motherfucker.")
I was in a fucking hurry,
But even if I fucking hadn't been,
I wouldn't have fucking stopped.
I walked the fuck on,
But a block and a half later,
The next motherfucker who asked me for some change
Got a fucking dollar.
Because that's how the fuck I roll.

So, ok,
"Spit" came out all fucking right, I think.
Even though, or maybe because, as it fucking happened,
I didn't have the Metal Box on this mp3 player after all,
So I'm  listening to the Flowers of Romance again,
I'm up to fucking "Hymie's Hymn,"
Which really is a fucking instrumental.

Fuck me, this is a great fucking album.
This is a great fucking moment, right here, right now.

I could think of some places I'd rather fucking be,
And some things I'd rather be fucking doing,
But this is pretty motherfucking nice.
So, yes: This Fuckin' Guy will keep it up
At least a little fucking while longer.
But something else is coming soon, for sure.
For fucking sure.

"Why worry now? You're not dead yet.
You've got a whole lifetime to correct it."
Fuck yes. Great fucking album.
Keep banging the motherfucking door.


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