Three Devils On a Park Bench


Footsteps. Maybe broken ribs. Cigarettes and torn stockings. Blood soaked gums. Stick it in. Smear it real good. Sunken cheekbones. Bows and arrows and heat rays that snatch at our sex as we try to just exist without death always biting at our ankles. Humbled by mosquitoes, my past emits deafening howls. It squashes memory only to reform it in some other shape. Culture and alienation. Women. Guns and decapitation. ISIS on the prowl as I sink into the bath. Milk and heartburn tablets plus the chirping of birds who can’t understand that this isn’t morning. Its a bright summers day instead. American love. Autumn leaves on a Californian driveway. You’re not here, but somehow it doesn’t matter. A line of coke. A cutting machine on the veins of weakling children. Don’t get too close to the edge. Don’t fall in the stampede. War on the horizon. Snapped thunder child. Ocean spray in open mouths. Whiskey. Beer. Hospital bed awaiting my final performance. Summer dream upon the sleeve of your dress. Victory takes ages. But it doesn’t matter any more. It don’t matter one little bit. Alive like fireflies. This is a sign. Not devils but givers of truth. Superhuman. Believers of a day when everything will be okay. And yeah, it will be okay. Just you see.

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