reeks of heroin laced hookers
and cheap fast food.
the page turns with murder
and vice,
with motor oil
and urine stained
trash enclosures
just south of
downtown
LA.
the page is a fist,
a bride
to the divided souls
looking for a little compassion
in a ruthless dive
made of razor wire and
cotton candy.
the page is the page
and nothing more
unless it comes to you from
the mouth
of the beaten,
of the deranged,
of the low and haggard,
of the genius crazed
heaving
the page
for the sake of the page.
the burnt and bent over,
taking another
for the sake
of the word.
the tired and broke,
fucked over from the
experience
like it
was the last experience
to be experienced.
the trapped and laughing
because he's aware
there is no way out
unless it's a straight shot into
the grave.
the bent, buckled masses
reading the word
that was never truly the word
because it was pushed aside
to let the shit sink in.
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