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Paradox
I’ve spoken to so many retarded kids;
They just want to tell me their name.
And I listen to religious men preach,
And I feel like I must know their name.
I know of parents
Who lose their children,
And cry and cry,
Like fucking again would be such a chore.
And I sympathize with the contradiction
Which pleads; it wouldn’t be hypocritical,
If we could just call it paradox.
And I swerve past the naïve possum,
Dead on the road.
He thought he would be safe out of the ghetto.
Little boys grow up
To be big little boys,
And the men are arguing righteously,
For their manhood,
Grown or not.
And I’m driving through all these cities,
Proudly, this is Los Angeles.
I’m asking her about her dick,
And what she really owns.
I’m telling her about my dad,
And about the dad I never had.
I’m putting my head in her chest,
And wondering if this is were the tits go.
People are starving to death,
And fat asses live in my slums.
People are starving to death,
And it takes that much guilt,
From those who eat the flesh of others.
I’m following behind the child of the night,
And he is warning me,
In this life, we will come across vampires.
He is leading me,
Silently considering,
Perhaps anarchy would be more just.
