Wednesday, August 29, 2012

We are a bold and saucy lot

She asked my name and occupation.
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.

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