People are utterly filthy.
Rags besmirched black and undertone red in blood, and ****,
and tears, and thrown up alcohol bought cheaper than a
***** on Seventh.
Oh, tell me about it.
I saw a dead person once.
Grime under fingernails and teeth carved in gingivitis--
filth of a body really; but still I cry for this begotten soul
until my own hands grow
disheveled in the hue of
sobbing women.
Women are always sobbing.
My good friend with fishnet tights cries and
cries when the bottle breaks and
glass becomes embedded in those brown
fingertips of hers.
What is worse?
The stench of rotting flesh mixed with Persian White
dripping from a needle three years defective,
or the scent of sobbing women soaked
lily-livered in sweat.
With an honest tongue, politely I exclaim:
I’d rather sit with the flesh of the dead man whose filth is rotting
away with the mist of dawn,
then the crying pupils of thou who breathe in
white wind from the heavens
and exhale clouds coated thick
in a thousand vile songs.