New York Nites - an old poem

New York Nites
M. Diamond

the food chain starts with who has a bathroom to shit in, a private less humble more grotesque and bright
why is the green shit Not snot but shit
always following me
drums thrumming really desperate jumpers busted by around the corner dregs
of the new york street made its way into my bowels. huh?
if your heart says "we dont need another hero!"
why am i trying to fight this sickness?
i wanna be my own deft handswiping wave that fucking hand over
my forehead and save my fucking soul!
the helplessness of last nights binge. last nights excessive thoughts.
she said she would call me and then didnt
so i called her, i called her around 50 times – in a row
i never went to sleep.
i eye opened dreaming about green blobby muscular animals taking the
shit out of me. getting into the corners, really cleaning me up more than hurting me.
and still she never called.
what would gunter grass do?
what would hunter s thompson do?
what would selma blair do?
what would.... you get the picture.
I have never had this before, what? oh. i'm talking about preciousness.
its not love. its being precious. its different.
look friends, if you can read this it still didnt happen to me.
if you can see me write this. if this sentence goes even one more word then you know
i was never that precious to her.