he sits alone in his cubicle atmosphere
the claustrophobia inducing room he calls home..
upon the rumpled bedsheets lies his ass
and melancholic like..
his head rests contemplatively
upon perspirating palms
peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers
unkempt hair stubbornly falls into face
the lice are so athletic in the filth
and scraggly beard is in custody of the hair
haunted eyes gazing out of sockets bleakly
pondering his most recent dilemma of murder
his wrinkled and dirtied linen uncared for
of course..
holy pants old and tattered beyond hope of mending
no pun intended
yes, he broods in a fashionable state of philosophy
approaching each available arguement and rebuttal objectively
circular reasoning, circular reasoning..
look, im back at the very beginning!
and in a profound daze of absent mindedness..
his hands covering himself in a trench coat
the leather bound books tightly under arms
le chapeaux est sur son tte..
and i cant speak french
his feet casually strolling him along the street
here and there, there and here?
through the dilipidated haymarket..
where merchants spout their shit.. propaganda
pimp their whores.. hooker, prostitute, working girl
sell their products for our fatass dirty dollar
oh, america is, oh, america is, oh, america is..
so grand aint it?
there goes our circular reasoning again...
the economy is f ck d, the homeless are u e
the politicians are u e , society is f ck d
education is f ck d, the workplace is u e
a m e r i c a i s f u c k e d
fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck
well............. fuck.
and so is..
is it? of course, yes, of course it is
light a candle for the sinners..
set the world on fire
just as his feet carry him to the wrought iron gate
his hands just as surely snap up limply from his sides..
pushing it aside..
slowly plodding his way towards the entrance
and coincidentally up the decrepit stairs..
as people of different shapes and sizes shove past him..
tenants, movers, pimps and whores, idiots and intellectuals
what a psychological zoo..
his hand reaches nervously.. up... up.... up.....
muscles clenching, bones grinding..
fingers closing around bell pull..
down.. down... down....
and the sound distinctly is driven into the ears..
gong
ring
ring
gong
latch is drawn from hook, locks unlocked..
fearfully, like an anxious rabbit..
and there before him stands a haggard old woman..
pawnbroker? oh yes, she is, she is.. wretched
she peers from between the crack in the door and the jam timidly
and suspiciously..
oh, what a hoarder the old bitch is.
greasy hair plastered to head, in a style of uncleanliness..
high forehead wrinkled with age of meaninglessness
mouth drawn into a mask of suspicion, hatred, greed..
and flimsy, soiled dress covers the frail body..
harsh, biting, like jack frost of january
fingers clutched weakly onto door..
you again.. what do you want?
she intones, her voice decaying, bereft of civility..
ive another pledge for you.
he says timidly, nervous, nervous, nervous, nervous..
Eterna