When you wake up in the morning
And your dick won’t rise with you
And your maid is late with your coffee
and this maid calls your driver
who is late because he went to a wake
of the dead and the living who wanted your photo a-feastin’ and your fly open
and your toes showin’ and you
curse him for wakin’ later than his
bossin’ and you read the papers
and you notice they missed the quota
and the countdown is off by a thousand and they talk about the helicopter and the man who jumped off from it and landed on the crocodiles and they have not forgotten but it has not been proven
And you hear Obama fucking intellectual, writing books, teaching law, editing a law journal, and he became President, what does he know about power when he hasn’t shot a man, when he hasn’t fucked a whore, when he gets angry in a gray suit, well-pressed and bloodless? Unlike the police with the million dollar home who robs a Korean, and then chokes him and burns him and flushes his ashes off the toilet while his boss sings a rock song in a concert of hippies who worship the Pope who caused the traffic and caused you to be late for a date
with a whore, and this drug-addict lover, de Lima, whose voice reminds you of your teacher who almost flunked you in math which has no use but for counting dead bodies that smell of gun powder that gives you the high like when you’re mad
so you decide to go on air and call the press and talk about the bullshit you go through each day
when all you ever wanted is an angry fix.
Yes, all you ever wanted is an angry fix.
‘tang-ina! ‘tang-ama! ‘tangnyolahat!