| Dammit I'm mad. Evil is a deed as I live. God, am I reviled? I rise, my bed on a sun, I melt To be not one man emanating is sad, I piss. Alas it is so late. Who stops to help? Man, it is hot I'm in it. I tell. I am not a devil. I level "Mad Dog". Ah, say burning is as a deified gulp in my halo of a mired rum tin. I erase many men, Oh, to be man, a sin. Is evil in a clam? In a trap? No. It is open. On it I was stuck. Rats peed on hope. Elsewhere dips a web. Be still if I fill its ebb. Ew, a spider. . .eh? We sleep. Oh no! Deep, stark cuts saw it in one position. Part animal, can I live? Sin is a name. Both, one. . . my names are in it. Murder? I'm a fool. A hymn I plug, Deified as a sign in ruby ash - a Goddam level I lived at. On mail let it in. I'm it. Oh, sit in ample hot spots. Oh wet! A loss it is alas (sip). I'd assign it a name. Name not one bottle minus an ode by me: "Sir, I deliver. I'm a dog." Evil is a deed as I live. Dammit I'm mad. |
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A poem by Demitri Martin - winner of the Perrier Award Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2003 |
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