©2018 CHRIS BUTLER/FUTURE FOSSIL MUSIC (BMI)
here’s a disturbance in the population
when viewed from above, it seems to start from a single point,
then spread around in a kind of moire pattern.
I‘m detached, so I observe...
that things turn brown too fast
parts fall off your body at an alarming rate.
you lose...the cork
people get pesky, snappish - appointments are made, but when you finally meet, and you say ‘hi’ and they snarl “get your mind out of my pants, you crotch-sniffin’ dog”
no one has the right wardrobe
and whatcha got itches like feathers
people jump out of their clothes
(when it’s) nicotine weather
but then I notice, these ripples and swirls are coming from me
i’m not above it.
I’m in it
so I mutate...
and I get hit with indescribable joy.
there is no ‘no’.
I coin new words like “exploricans” or “insquisite”.
I get what I wish for, with no unintended consequences
I am well-paid, well-fed, well-fucked and well-respected
I go to a go-go
I twist the night away
I have...a clue
I have...an inkling
I have...a faintest idea
I have...a foggy notion
I have...a thing to wear...
I’m approved...i get permission for...whatever
there is no bad news when it’s nicotine weather
then everything flips...
rain rain’s up
night follows day, instead of day following night
time - supposedly a constant - speeds way up in the morning,
but slows way down at night
wild poets suddenly get quiet
women leave their waterbottles at home.
somebody moves your chair
you pray that your kid does not have any talent. that if they call him kike, or nigger or pollack, he lets it slide...but if they call ya ‘unique’ = punch ‘em in the nose, Junior! and may you be a golf-playing, Republican accountant/if you want art...buy it.
you get the pain to exactly like you like it
or at least to you feel better
it’s Christmas...it’s Utopia/Vegas...it’s nicotine weather.