Soap Shepard, master of metaphor, I replied.
She gave me a funny look and wouldn't give me any money.
Cretins all, thought I.
It was a damp day. Grey and windy
and I was here, suffering these dick-less swine.
Wanted to leave. Left.
Experiencing a bout of phantosmia.
Today it is the sour, weedy scent of summer;
high school finger-fucks and fabric softener.
Contemplating the imprisonment of my favorite Russian.
Drinking warm, cloudy water.
I am a heat-seeking missile.
People talk too much
and their art is boring.