DOWNSTAIRS NEIGHBOR PERSON

The boy downstairs is driven half insane

by his bitch of a mother -

She of the scary hair & temper tantrums,

& her multiple personalities (none of them kewl);

She of the stale smell that I can't bring myself

to describe or inhale.

The boy downstairs plays his music loud.

He doesn't make the music, but it is his

because no one sane would have it.

The boy downstairs, who years ago,

found it hard to sleep because of the

sounds of the fucking faggots overhead,

is listening now to the music that I am

playing loudly;

driven to the edge by that boy's bitch

mother & his music so foul.

I turn the knob & crank the bass & drown out that

madness in the kewl velvet darkness of my trip hop

cure for early '80's wannabe fringe boys & their

once tacky collected ramblings, now tarnished

terribly by the very hands that bid them scream louder.

His music is wiped out & buried; proper & without incident.

My soldiers' anthem rages on.

My stomack growls;

war makes me hungry.