flies buzzing around
their dying brethren
in the trap by the garbage.
my cigarette is turning
to atmosphere;
"its polluted already",
I say to nobody halfheartedly.
it's all heavy
and pretty ******* useless
for anything other
than becoming food for the
pen and the page.

"this path supposed to
be the scenic route",
nobody replies
in Marlene Dietrich's voice.

there isnt ever a point
besides the conversation
itself.