this is the dwelling where wind is a bell and a beacon for death. where youthful pursuit is punctured by family names or famine of fortune. boys in bands buoyed by Onos and shared women. lawyer fathers and social ***** mothers whose children are forbidden to **** up. one street reserved and smothered by talking townsmen whose belligerent brides keep tabs on their fellow middle-aged malicious minded low-lifes engorged in gossip are the parading fat men who rise early to feed off ones business capital tragedies ****** shortcomings of the stuck and single prey off tweens tweeting of body glitter and b-cups. clique chick coquettes play house with their shiny image seeking male counterparts who sing songs of their leather faced lady friends with plastic claws they now admit they would never marry antagonizing cute couples secretly copulating with former loves' lust only to mingle with conspirators molding to dominant thought once a waitress always a waitress with overdrawn bragging rights and unemployment checks serving snobs like themselves who sip savignon self-righteous polo popping perverts accompanying their prized play things who join the charles river emigrants and stale french pastries scouting the waste colored palace of prejudice. now blades of winter draw months of blue blood bringing forth frozen thoughts slowly dripping onto thawing skin. another warm summer sunΒ Β forthcoming foreshadowed by this wind-chafing forlornness. though i will fall in love again and bridge rats will always be kings.