On weekdays, privatised ******* trucks disguise our secret fascinations and shift the scraps of our failed dinners into piles of decomposing waste.
Welcome to the city, there are buses on the hour. Better grab a seat before coffee stained tattoos covered by sweaty rags absorb up all the loneliness. Where do they all go to? Who eats all the bludgeoned bodies?
Oh, book the saturated dinner table tonight. I feel like saturation.
In the weekends, somatic mutations reveal themselves, for if I, speak, like, I can speak, then I am not speaking to anyone save for the flowers. Oh, so hurray, the garden blossoms again!
But I mean, in the end, I maintain I am writhing like a centipede in a dryer, tumbling between hot air, screaming “Help me! Help me! Where has the humanity gone? I cannot even capitalise first names! You must forgive my lack of morals!”
“Hello” “I am here!” “Hello?” “I am here!” “Hello!” “I am here!”