Overheard during the workweek, in hell’s suburb:
The local act, part 1
Act as if sleepwalking, in a trailer court, the bowl and bowel, and these thoughts float up too:
Blame me for that too you sanctimonious cocksucker, you’ll see that my feet are the last thing you will see
I said I’ll bake you a pie already -dickhead- just don’t forget my goddam cigarettes.
And few closing endearments to light the dusk:
(the local act, part 2)
When the money gets back, I’ll speak again
You sure discovered the cure for pretty- just wish it didn’t have to smell so fucking bad.
And: If all the blinds remain closed, can you almost forget where you are?