Hard Streets, crooked houses and crack. Bullets flee from the gang's gun only to land inside another man's chest. Turf wars and tall walls, nasty looks and mocking grins; all is detached in this City of Obscurity. Soulless creatures that wander with many daggers in their backs. Dog fights and Dog Fights; they fight like dogs. Bludi Murdah and 2-minute hate speeches. Anorexia. Hunger. Rats and Raw Foods and blackened bitter days. Carrion crows clung to shadows. Jackals breaking rusty locks with jack-hammers, stealing from the poor and taking from the rich. *** for TAT, catch me if you can. Green with envy, green with money; grey and without life.



Then. On the littlest street corner, through the toughest torn tar.





A Rose...

Sometimes,
usually when I've had a drink,
(or two),
I try to remember what it feels like to be kissed,
the hot, wet, desperate pressing of lips.
This is what it must be like for somebody with Alzheimer's disease.
Pretty much impossible.
I creak open my own crumbling, forgotten lips, lined with cobwebs, filled with bats.
I think of Miss Havisham.
"Can I get another?"