I Don't Trust My Own 2 Feet Or Know what To Share About Their Steps From Here to There

Goose, moose, loose, noose        
spruce, truce, whose line is it?        
oh its mine,          
ya I'm fine        
no I don't dine          
or drink wine        
or whine except when I stub my toe        
or lose my snub nose or miss a bug grow        
         
One in a window, one that I know,        
a spider or spider or spider        
or a spider, one of those,        
one with lots of eyes        
and a diet that's gross        
         
I watch them through a haze          
of glass uncleaned,        
I watch them grip web as wind blows        
a breeze that is mean        
         
I watch flies dead        
they get spun up and cleaned,        
blood is dirty        
organs are dirty        
skin is dirty        
future is dirty        
happiness dirty        
dreams are dirty        
being more than poop is dirty        
them flies and their wings,        
I bet they can't even dance        
         
I doubt they can sing        
I doubt that they do much of anything at all        
besides see a bunch          
at a time,        
both ends of the hall,        
larvae that crawl,        
trucks and potatoes        
and trees that are tall        
         
Stupid fly,        
them spiders are where it's at        
them and the cats        
and making prank calls during tests        
“is your fridge running?        
wow I'm impressed,        
I can barely get mine to walk”        
then they hang up          
and I hold        
a gun to my chest        
         
I'm feeling perplexed, vexed        
stressed and in debt        
I chase a fly, singing        
baby you are mine        
let me be as a spider        
let me sip the wine,        
bring me to your family          
you can feed off my spine, never mind        
I'll just unwind,        
no chasing today, I'll        
just taste some hay bales, made out of clay,        
horses here, neigh          
cowards        
just pretend there's a gust        
so I must sway in place        
for like, 11 hours, I'm a pony        
         
I touch a wall and pretend I have power        
to write a song, skip all my showers        
grab a knife and filet        
my flawless, beautiful leg        
to make bacon for cake,        
use the bones of my bone        
to spell out on top, T as in steak,        
then make tea in the lake        
go to the beach and just rake        
for hours and days        
stretch my wrist till it's sprained        
         
I aim guns at tourists        
who complain about my shit        
in their way, then I play        
jump rope and hopscotch        
with some kids and complain        
and then rage at poorly tied knots        
when two short ropes are wrangled together        
and I debate whether murder is earned        
or deserved over poorly drawn blocks        
with their segments severed,        
an awful display        
What dope made those?        
I'm trying to jump, 1 2 3 4 5 and 6        
I feel I've been tricked by some chump        
I really do and am liable to thump        
with the butt of a magnum        
with the flagrance of the sun          
that has fun burning me up        
         
Is summertime done?        
it needs to be up        
give me some winter,        
a hot coffee in cup,        
boiled eggs delivered        
by some dastardly truck        
who knows where we are        
who spies from afar          
when        
we sleep          
he hides in fake cars        
he's a creep in the stars,        
the man on the phone,        
he hands me weird things        
when I'm alone        
sand filled scones and on the road        
he stands brandishing lobes        
with giant earrings made of earwigs        
as big as globes that you'd buy        
from a dollar store or some place        
that likes earth or something        
         
THAT WAS QUITE THE DREAM    
NOW ON TO real matters    
         
I don't trust the mailman        
I don't trust my doctor        
I don't trust a dog, I wish ill on sponsors       
I don't trust a log          
why'd it leave the base          
of such          
a radiant tree?        
         
I don't trust the fog,        
I can't really see          
         
I don't trust a cog        
         
I don't trust the face of  
man made machines        
I don't trust a pond        
and cannot swim with ease        
unless I have fins on my feet        
and arm inflatables, squeezed          
on my biceps and triceps,        
I don't trust the sea        
         
I don't trust wands        
magic, wizardry,      
is not for me        
         
I don't trust your God,        
what's he done for me        
and why don't I see        
of miracles you speak?        
 
I don't trust a job        
or supposed        
diplomacy        
         
I don't trust a hog,        
that's bacon on it's feet        
and I don't trust a yawn        
when I don't wanna sleep        
or feel any need        
         
and        
I don’t trust my lawn        
where ants creep      
and voles quietly peep,        
it's a land of sneaks,          
tiny feet and big beaks,        
nibbling up all of my green        
and I don’t trust a sheep wandering        
up hills, steep, that's a coat walking        
soon auctioned to be reaped        
         
I don't trust a yolk        
in a store, what a        
joke of a soul, home        
closed off in a shell        
perhaps to be cracked        
or spread thin and then fold        
over cheese that reeks        
and is borderline mold,        
be the egg, either          
scrambled or boiled        
in a cauldron,        
I don't trust a carton,        
rows full          
of life forces severed,          
feathers in coffins        
         
I don't trust a switch        
that's on and off too often        
         
I don't trust my stitches        
sitting eight inches        
atop my hip as        
I don't trust my grip        
climbing out from some        
soft angled, gradual ditch,        
smooth it out or just dip        
so I can ride flat or get air        
on my bike        
I don't care, just don't look        
so dumb          
sitting there,        
like deflated despair        
like a cradle or swathe        
bathed in green hair        
I'm impaired, swimming in flask        
give me my wishes        
and        
let them be cast        
         
I don't trust a splash          
I don't trust a splish        
in every one of my sips        
I don't trust fishes          
with human looking lips        
who swim over for kisses        
         
I don't trust suspicious        
hooligans in mittens        
exposing rotten          
finger          
tips laced with blood glistening        
         
I don't trust dismissive,        
those who don't listen        
I don't trust messes or        
flies in your kitchens        
         
I don't trust the world        
I don't trust my eyes        
or the sky, I don't trust a pigment        
on the side of a box        
lying about phony nutrition        
         
I don't know superstitions        
but I coughed and threw fits          
and all of my salt spilled        
onto pages of fiction  
as soon I crashed laughing through  
myself in my mirror  
and my wig split and    
I don't trust they'll be air        
in my pigskin in the spring        
when I spring into whipping        
sick spins over picnics and        
into some twigs mitt        
         
I don't trust others proclaims          
of precision,        
when some, they get splayed          
by sloppy incisions        
which leave limbs, minds and spines        
with        
injuries extensive        
which is why        
I don't trust your help        
cuz I don't trust the system        
         
I don't trust in my health, hearing        
my heart whisper, don't worry        
we'll get em        
         
I don't trust my wealth,        
that's but digital pittance        
         
I don't trust in stealth        
by my own admittance        
I admit that I tripped        
and crashed into fences,        
while stealing fences for fences        
         
I don't trust in Hell          
and it's variety of sinners        
         
I don't trust in hearsay,          
with no show shown,          
that is only tell and no winner,        
for me and no picture        
         
I find it          
like being served          
foodless plates          
that are claimed to retain        
tastes of splashes of wine        
and former          
formal dinners, where diners reclined          
to these now empty pitchers        
with residue of lime,        
the backwash of some spitter,        
your hogwash has grown thin        
and is starting to drift        
atop the swell of my inquisitive tinder        
flames tickle and blister        
         
I don't trust bells        
painting pictures of time        
with irritating chimes        
and finely made, shiny gold shimmer        
I don't trust wells        
water fountains with grubs        
and small worms churning        
like on the lawn, only        
creepier,        
deeper and dimmer        
         
I don't trust shells        
or the crabs within em        
I don't trust my cells        
or padded cells that pin em        
         
or whacky gels        
for hair not enough cemented        
I don't trust forests felled        
or bugs that yell in full sentence        
I don't trust a weld        
when I lay on metal plates        
so high up and so dented        
         
I don't trust a gremlin        
dry or wet, full or unfed,        
that fur is demented        
I don't trust or fuss          
with a truss        
if I can grab and bend it        
and I've no trust in hues        
easily blended,        
I like buds that bloom,        
not taking life for granted,        
sticking to their own and I've        
no trust in windows tinted        
or those who harbor resentment        
I don't trust floors patched        
or tech implemented        
I don't trust in you,        
sue me, send it, I'll        
write out your impending        
and guaranteed doom        
if you even look offended        
at how I end it, sour  
I don't trust splendid