I'm really ****ing sick of everything
Sleep clings like the crabs as I leave my box
clock sluggish, streets with feigned greeting
make little noise, gaseous air works like detox
people swim through people, flesh in fleeting
I'm sick of ****ing rhyming . . .
I walk up the street light, a man with a goat's head tells me off.
Dark Tower reference?
The fans should **** off.
He nods and offers a drink, potion in hoof, cork in teeth.
I decline and walk off, cars pass through whitening space
Men in grey face paint climb women and stairs with clubs
Black-hatted albinos sit in circles with jams in dubz (Yes I wrote a ****ing z)
All the poles have speakers.
All the childrens have ***** shaped ear wear.
All the stars have eyes and swollen phalluses that drip when you stare long.
I walk to the point of the hill, where the dawn meets the pale ain soph.
And I see you standing there, so concordially I stick you with a Freundlich.
__________________
“YOU ARE SCUM SLUT.”
-John Martyn
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