Empty beer cans and the ghost of Nietzsche as I eye up a fine set of legs adorned in black tights. They cross then uncross, each motion pulling me in until saliva drips from my open lips so it dribbles down my chin like the weirdo I am. Those cans, they kick around the streets and then bear witness to the rain and the coming of proles on their way into town looking for violence and the thrill of knife fights that make the delight of chewing on a tit as bland as mowing the lawn. Although truth be told, I’ve always enjoyed mowing the lawn. Especially when the sun’s shining and the birds are in the trees singing their songs while looking down upon me. And while wiping the sweat from my forehead and smoking a cigarette, it’s as if life is but a dream. Those legs though. That flesh. These words and the worlds I’ve constructed that seem to fall apart at the merest of touches, it’s a bummer for sure, and yet although it’s so sad, that they shone for a while is more than enough. To shine a light in the darkness. To give a little hope. These are the things that set us apart from the dreary and deadening machine and those that get sucked into it while all the time maintaining they’re free. They’re not, but those legs. That smile. Your smile that still cuts through me like a knife through butter, or the blade of some narco on the streets of Brasil going in and out the neck of some punk like a real horror show. Back to the beginning baby. Take me back to where we belong. Close the curtains, run a comb through my hair, and tell me this love will keep me safe from harm. Let it be Sunday forever. Take me someplace warm where the lights of tomorrow never reach me and rest your head on my chest with no words save for those that pass silently between our gooey heads like the spooks we are.