well i guess i'm going to stay here
write some more
keep myself awake
for a while
i'm at the airport
they don't have wi fi
yet all these ******* planes
landing and taking off
with their satellites
electronics
planes charging money for breathmints
pillows
yet
this ******* right here
can't sign on the internet
i can only see the limited version of the internet
which is only
the atlanta hartsfield airport website
it's the most boring website in the world
now i have to entertain myself
by checking flights
that aren't even mine
to feel like
i'm some sort of computer programmer
hacking into the system
changing people's flight information
that's the point that i'm at
with nothing exciting in sight
until 9am
when the bar starts serving alcohol

Remember, some line up.
Line up and wait for their own day in hell.
They scream for victory.
The far away deep, lost heart places that  
dry up fast when cowards are left to tend them.

Accelerating, gnarled prizes, metal and tubes,
wires and guts and brains that smoke the sun's color,
losing it in the pitch of the rainbow-slicked sludge.
Up, up, and away, a dark celebration in song, something
shouted gleefully at the sky on the way to the gallows.

Desire, hate, and the teasing, fatted, greasy greed,
they all feed the Black God's Mirth, they'd better.
They'd better know he'll consume them as quick,
when the hard, cold mud-water fist envelops them
embraces them, makes them still again.

Don't waste your deep song throats on a trivial Godsson,
humanity-theif or cracked up narc, discarding dignity
as quickly as you give it up. Don't do it.
Give him breathmints and soap and humility, please.
He needs those.  

Don't take anything that isn't yours or can't be sold
quickly, easily locally. The bedroom path is
strewn with flowers no one loves
You are worth a little revenge now and then, get some.
Talk??? It's cheap ****. No one's buying.

he sits down in the lobby and the tv is playing some show, there are also stacks of magazines on the table
  after about a minute and thumbing through the stations with the remote and eating complimentary breathmints the bearded man with a green neck approaches, and he has jewelry hanging from his nose
"Are you Sebastian?"
he says calmly and nicely
"well yes I am!"
"well okay then, nice to meet you, why don't you have a seat over there"
as he points to a pristine barber shop chair with bright red lapels and that smell of lavender.
Next to the seat is a petite girl with a bettie page hair do and traditional rose tattoos on her hips
and floral designs lining her shoulder, you barely notice.
"Okay, we agreed on the yellow
  snake with bubbles to signify your dog's passing correct?"
he says to me
"yes, yes we did"
"Well okay then! Let's get started!"

He starts, and it's the gentlest ***** you've ever felt, and the Joy Division pumping through the speakers sets you at ease.
A mother with her kids and a face tattoo of a dagger strolls in; on her lunch break, she schedules an appointment to have her back scalpeled with the design of a Christmas tree so as to be ironic because she's really a satanist; but it's pagan anyway so no-one cares.

    After about 2 hours, my artist finishes and wraps me with sandwich plastic and rubs hemmoroid cream all over the yellow snake. It's beautiful.
"You sat like a champ! Here's a lolly for you"
it's a green lolly and I **** it; it really tastes good, and I go home and admire my tattoo in the mirror for hours
and talk about it to all my friends who have the same yellow snake. It really makes me feel like I belong