Tuesday, March 20, 2012

When the near-blind man converses with the drunkard,
He can only sorta see what that fool's getting at.
Pecking away at the night with pungent breath
And falling deeper into the blackness
With hazy memories and hopes of self-control
As the only lifelines he has.

But each handshake exchanged,
No fucks
No shits
Are accepted as currency---
Not even traveler's checks are taken
At this establishment with these social bureaucrats,
Who focus too much on social protocols and procedures.
Everything has to be in order
Before they get what they want,
And even then you have to make your appearance
Near the end of a queue, with a ticket in hand,
Waiting for your number to be spoken through a pane of glass.
Let's rot out our teeth,
And all fall down.

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