Back Alleyways
I was one of those fools, lurching
about in the streets. My chin, gushing
its cherry juices, was sliced open by some
ghastly blade flying in the night, a weapon
wielded by pure madness. I was crouched behind
a bordello dumpster, caked in joyous grime,
a man challenged by none but bested by all.
Sick, weary, bloodied, and clueless, I sat
naked in the filth, chamberpot refuse flying from
steamy windows in piles at my gnarled, aching feet.
But I, transfixed by the sight before me,
barely recoiled from the splashings of ****
surrounding me. Hidden from sight by the massive
trash receptacle, I ogled each and every last
buxom preacher and mayor and police officer's wife
creep into that blackened box room and meet her
smiling suitor, eyes glistening from the weight
of bawdy fantasies within. It is in these moments,
I tell you, that life itself is revealed, and the
mysteries of morality, philosophy, and science
collide into a festering pool of lewd truth.
Our terrifying little rat race, our crafty plans,
all end in the same cycle: eat, ****, **** and die.
Now I'm laying behind the dumpster, giggling to
myself. The cops will be around soon, and I'll be
back at the shelter. I'll **** in the corner and maybe
write my name on the wall with it. Then, back into
the grey yonder.
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