Breakfast of Champions

my anonymity is stalking the streets like a preoccupation. mornings, slowly I creep into august daylight, filling beat boroughs. passing the time: digging fake burrows: motel rabbitrooms don't come with sheets: boxes gloomy in the dinge; dead-end streets. dark corners; alleys; clean and replete. rowers; faces; kept random, entreat to be shadowed and cut - copied and reprinted: E. de Silhouette: silk-screen and tinted. marionette hands are fire-flies nigh night like acariasis-itchy eyes: broken from sight watching the downpour: downbeat and worn like tire-worm whitewalls: peeling and torn. the blanched, arched faces (trampled like elephant’s acacia) are garnets staring blankly at me between the tiny gaps of a wintertime fleece a paisley studded blanket, wrapped knee-high round niece. running tubes from great maple: palsied cold saps berry's blood ulcer pours like paint with no cap from a bucket it spills: unravels, unwraps. It splashes my feet then runs red and abrupt; silvery and smooth, sanguis from a cup.