wet Angels make for entertaining nights

it's always moist

that place on the back of my neck

where the essence is leaking out.

a

damp spot

like glue to hold

the pieces together

as if this weren't bad enough,

I'm pretty sure I'm seeing angels -

small ones with crazy eyes

and dirty feet.

looks like they could have walked miles

in tar,

on

hot asphalt to get to me here in the West

of nothing.

it's true and I don't think they give a damn.

but they're watching me all the time through everything I do:

it's a religion to them now. They can't get enough of me. Maybe that's why there's

that sticky shit leaking out of the back of my head. It's my essence and I can't do without

it. They're aware. So it only goes to show they're trying to kill me slowly with staring eyes

and

dirty fucking feet.

don't get me started on that incessant music they play at all hours of the day and night

to beat drums out of my goddamn mind.

but they're Holy and some restraint is necessary if you're going to make it through

this shit alive.

If they kill me, you'll never know.

It'll be some sort of disease.

Could be a tumor,

or a growth.

Maybe cancer, but I doubt that, too cliché.

Never mind Spanish Harlem,

they live right next door and they beat those fucking drums constantly.

They're Angels.

They're your neighbors.

They might be your best goddamn friend.

But they'll get you in the end.

Be sure of it.