Clouds of dank satire.
Leaves short, hot cuts in this belly
and that belly.
Like jabbing your fingers into old meat. Sticky and dry with new festering life.
And the rats rub their teeth. There’s fresh decay for the future, as ever.
Leaning one day against a wall I saw a homeless man dig himself out from his sleeping bag. No time to feel the sun on his face. That man had things to do. And I had some things which needed doing which all of a sudden felt fruitless and rotten.
A shank nod to the fiery eyed. A focus for a second to see that you have “it”.
You’re got it. And you know. And you’ve always known. It’s no plea. Those cold places you’ve seen. That’s for you. And for all of us.
Experience being spat on by humans who deem you as a failure. Getting it wrong. Filthy, stinking beggar. That taste on your tongue of old rain and forgotten skin. Dulled forms, memories of love. Caught in a slight moment. We all have it.