Just give me the salacious details. Show me the explosion. The campy sluts that ply their craft to the anonymous masses. My soul is rotten and nothing is fair.
Just give me the seeds. To place and yearn for. Like waiting for the pollution of self to subside. In twisted metal and fleeced goods. Gunfire cries to the shriek of trains. And this too, was someone's dream.
There, in the trash that litters the streets, rolling in the wind, caught in nets of chain link. Trawling itself like some pulsating metastasized ouroboros, fueled by drugs and money.
Just give me the desert. Where things make sense without expectation. Just the equity of the brutal sun and the stillness of vacant thought. Where I don't mind eating scraps; and don't get looked upon while doing it.
