Some moments push past
like an aggressive pedestrian;
busy,
self important,
self absorbed,
manipulated.
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,
burn until the night,
then it sleeps
and the wolves come out.
That’s when the real living happens.
-HG
