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 Today is Slightly hostile




Existence is – incinerated; too be continued, too be addicted; stomped on, chewed up and spat out, like coffee and codeine. Gone,

Going go it’s the here to now go crowd with inclinations toward evisceration. Futile is the reward of a dogmatic deathbed recanting of all creative sin.

Hanging on, in the hanging by a thread continuation of single minded thought.

Stepping up to the step down left turn. Of callous pandering, of the looking busy, the looking looks, longing for something to do.


Bored of the boredom of facing the long stripe strike. The sacred and violent profane; the obscenities that flail in the everyday faces. Look toward the evening Eastern star, shading the custom of paradise gone angelic; now all has just gone to rot and ruin.


Party at the old Hope and Anchor presenting the step down dub step downtown paranoid punter growing more derelict by the moment.

Come; sit in on the decay of the plastic people. Purchased by the fascist fashionable. The Vogue dictatorship of vague relationships with gold and blurred lies of white lines. Feel the need of the burning 5000, a rambling missive for those red rubber belle’s of the ball.

So what is the point and purpose if this flowered pastel decay? What is the point and purpose of those daily displays lust and avarice.

Feeding the need of the 5000 suffering the Que of the waiting for it all to begin. Preform for me an assemblage of pedestrian preachers. Pedestal preachers performing a twisted dance for the gathering forms of the converted and deserted. Conform to the celestial waltz divine


I’ll take 2, dime store dye jobs counting the pennies, a tapestry of societal ills, an abstraction of common law. Ruptured rapture causing a reign of piss from the galloping apocalypse. Flicks of the naked wrist. A limp flicked wrist naked and disturbing the disgusting array of vertebrates. No reason – no excuses…dance for the crowd but perform only for me monkey boy. The banjo playing on a dancing box of fat cheeky and likely insane – has to be in this dreary nasty place.

Waiting for a Trotsky; ice pick that severs the stem. A travelogue of atrocities flicker on the screen as little Emmanuel digs himself looking for the rest of what he is owed. A rose coloured rooftop garden of Bootblacks in an orgy of self denial. Time to clean up the crap of this nasty little burg.


Feed the 5000 a diet of bullshit and Benzedrine, gotta be high to survive this place. Open gap toothed mouth breathers sitting in a square of dioxin, drinking horse size super gulps to match the obesity rate of the growing waist. It’s all about time, about time…listen and wait for it. That’s the cue, perform the monkey boy dance just for me. Mark times up by two.