It quickly became apparent that not all was
as it once was.
The mouth which governed the wall
(which was twisted and cracked)
smiled,

and proceeded to
grind its teeth
to the beat of the
morbid drone of
the siren.

Each a percussive
slab of yellowing ivory,
chipped, curved;
a grizzled toenail.
Being torn off
may solve more problems
than it causes.

At the door:
A  brushing noise.
If the mouth could see
how gracefully
I navigate the room,
it might be impressed
and let me out.

*Note to self:
Doors are best left closed.

My spoon tinkles
and finds sanctity in the mug.
I toss a dollar to the waitress

and smile at her on my way out.
Nothing.
Nothing but the blank face
I always get from that *****.
I don't know why I bother

going back to that place.
As I leave, I hurt a little
and realise that
it's the only home I have.

What a ******* sorry state of affairs.
I leave the diner and turn up my collar.
The rain spots my glasses
but I'm not sure if I care.

**** could be a lot worse.

My coffee is tepid and so is the sky.
The clouds snap shadows to the floor
and demonize the sleeping ***'s silhouette.

It's funny,
you can't help but feel that
life would be simpler eating
twisted crap out of dumpsters.
But what those ******* Bums don't know

is that they are missing out
on some of the best things in life;
money, self-respect.
But then again

I don't see any of those drugpushers
give a **** about self-respect. And
your money is as valuable as
the **** you want to poison yourself with.

One way or another, the streets would be paved with gold.
It was a matter of time, sure. But more importantly,
it was a matter who the **** would help a town like this.

Shitsville, New Jersey: a faecal suburb.  
Years of dead and still rotting potential
with an ugly face,
the eyes of a hawk and a sense
of remorse an executioner would be proud of.

The day I see a  kid sleeping as sound as they should,
I'll drop to my knees, pull my resentful fist
out of God's *** and
kiss it for forgiveness.

But the streets are ****** now.
And the janitors have drugs and hookers,
not mops and brooms.

They call me 'the Crutch'.
And as such, I know how that sounds.
But I don't like to speak about it
much.

See, people think I'm just nice.
'Nice and supportive', that's it.
Gets me every time.
But not for a second

do they consider that
once they've sat down
and discarded me by the coats
and the hats,
I need one too.

They sit
like the curve of a parabola
facing in.

Though they do not see each other.
He sees only himself
amidst the gore and rot
which once passed as
a picnic lunch.

Pickled spines
and curried thought processes
to name but a few
of the delectables today.

In he reaches,
grabbing handfuls of cured flesh,
and not leaving any time
for chewing.

The yellow fog is syrup
and makes him
heavy-headed.

The trees are old men,
curved backs
and withered from living.
They only want a kind ear
to hear their untold stories of
life, love and death.

Glutton wants food.
he guzzles and guzzles
and never listens to those
who want him to listen.

So he eats,
they cry,
they die
and they are all alone together.

As I pondered,
and watched the eyelid
unwrap itself like
a horrible tentacle,
I realised that
opening the door was

a fatal error.

You see,
I sit here, and
it watches me intently.
And of course,
I stare back.

'What?'

'Stupid me', I think.
It's a ******* eye.
It can't speak for itself.
But what if it could?
Would it say anything?
What about:

'Close that ******' door,
yer lettin all the heat out!'

Possible, I guess.