after a month of living in my new house,
i still spend ample time ruminating on desention.
after two months it has become obvious that you can't drive stick shift,
and that black tar smile of yours is getting a bit old.
in any case i wont be leaving anytime soon.
its a television i cant rightfully turn off.
or maybe i dont want to yet, the only other place i have to go is
back where i came from.
and ive already spent to much time there.
mental reciepts are starting to add up, and only so much can be written off;
12.50 practice space,8 rum and juice,5 cheese,6 ciggarettes,4 stamps,
and so on and so on...
taxman
why cant i get a job taking surveys?
is the opinion of a single white 23 year old really that undesirable?
after three months im making my own surveys.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem