Some moments push past

like an aggressive pedestrian;


self important,

self absorbed,


Never more caught up

in the futile death race,

the ragged bone dance

of the chronic masturbator.

Fuck another dog eat dog day.

The cellar is a mortuary,

the top floor suite

is a whorehouse,

sick with STI’s

and broken condoms.

What sickness would draw a person

to the 13th floor?

The ravaged countenance

of the life long junkie

stares back

from your retirement fund.

Jog another mile.

Drink another shake.

Pump another muscle.

Yeah, you’ve got it figured out now.

Your self obsessions draw you out,

into the lime light

where the lions wait,

stalking hungry and rabid

and the crowd

clamours for your blood.

I hope you believe in resurrection,

because this life’s not fit for the damned.

The sallow Sun

couldn’t give less of a fuck

about the President,

or the stock market

or Iran;

it’s job is to burn,


burn until the night,

then it sleeps

and the wolves come out.

That’s when the real living happens.


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