Crack whore dreams of long vacant store fronts, dripping in a mossy acidic disease filled clump gathering money and radioactive cum from the never-ending parade of sociopaths eager to fuck them up and over. The ocean wind toppled displays of hurricane rated kerosene stoves; bottled water, marked plywood, corroded mag lights and tins of scalper priced baked beans.
Do P.O. whores dream;
Dreams of electric sleep, trolling for hits on hacked message boards. Strolling through almost deserted terminal stations. Terminally terminal old punk graphitti “all your miss-steaks belong 2 U 2. Brush work, done over a faded Hilfiger billboard.
Desperation in desolation, a weak coffee like water through grounds two times too many. Crowd around for a cuppa the re-opened and re-branded Starfucks with no celebrity, no paparazzi boys, no corner Scientology pamphlet binned trash here.
Retina burning eye-wear in bins. A clearance sale of the discontinued.
No-one buys looks or removes. Dusty racks of last years decade. Decadent descendants of designer label excess.
Dream on baby blue death, Fuck you I got mine; a gravel voice sounds out from the Kansas homes of Dorothy wake walking through dreamless night crawler legs.
Disposable bullshit piled high addicts with hemorrhoids living the dream.
It’s every crumb for himself. Echos in the darkened hallowed hallways …nothing left here. Old man echos, alley shops, shopping for remembrances. Old men and P.O. Whores nothing else and no-one else matters. Fucked over Psycho-Sociopaths, of violence in the air burned into the ground. The albatross around the neck. In and out, out and in, in with the old, old with the new, a new day dawns; fanfare. Music plays loudly from some distant player … Air on a G string to Ginsburg’s beat classic … City lights burning bright. A night fire leads heavy breathing barely breathing dead-time in a bedtime. Sleep, sleep interrupted dreamless dead eyes wide open. Accidents happen here; Bio-hazard wasteland wonderland.
Black and blue baby blue like the bruises of sin with a player piano banging out punched out notes, sounds good looks uninteresting.
Brave dear heart beats beating rhythms hammered down, drum patterns, machine gun. Revolutions per minute it is Che` chic fashion as a uniform; arm bands ribbons and rubber bracelets. Fashion over feeling don’t you know feelings are in fashion.
Baby dreaming baby dreams outside the crib dog barking, yelping trespassing fashionista’s. Those former sandanista’s infiltrated the old Weather Underground/S.L.A. cells of telephone telephonie. The telephonic Hearst bubble burst of ego deflating interest bearing bonds of Waffle House boys running rampant flashing for a fresh hot now.
Long displayed, long played whores on P.O. Fucked up again, so many times fucked over again. Depressed, spray painted corrugated, steel concrete fiberglass walls covered in fashionable phrases, posters and last weeks year gone by.
Seems like decades ago. Solitary solutions, stagnant, indignant. Injustices imagined or otherwise.
Fanfare thoroughfare. Its what these cats need. Stench of metal death. Distressed under duress comes in cases, dozens at a time, pockmarked perfection, stress marked lifeless. Eyeless. Life going through the emotional motions. Come on baby one more time. Whores looking for a date mate. Real GFE, if they can stop the shakes. Well maybe tomorrow … Real GFE.
Viaduct blues, blue baby blue, singing homeless home on the range singing free jazz Tennessee Ernie Ford found on the side of the road. Cowboy saxophone sex. Its the Viaduct blues blue baby blue.