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.