Take-ApartxYour-Head

shifting in a bed after days of nothing less than rubbing sticks. I find myself missing nasal congestion and psoriasis.

Outside that red and grey smoke-stack cathedral of industry, squatting in the dirt and burying cigarettes, remembering all the funerals I gave that month to the sparrow and to you, I frown and blink, as I watch everything we used today incinerate in the night. And oh, how that night came quickly in only a month we saw the sun fall an hour sooner. I think of chasing the pigeons again from that car-clogged tower only this time I'd catch them, I wouldn't run. I might only know a nibble from those tigers Bukowski raved about, but that is enough. I kneel remembering how I came like slaughter (passionate and real).