it's life i'm living

warm vodka on dust wood flirts with the pale virgins
sweet pussy on south street chases the vultures
a reflection shudders as granny goes blind in the left eye
on the first floor is an aging pervert, burn victim, sipping on afternoon chai

i run down to get sex from the groupies east of broad street
camus hangover and my dick is the only part of me that can stay up
face stings from a slap over tits like an angry ocean in a tight bra
i got fingers bleeding and the sluts are like daisies at august's end

in the front row of the five six seven decades a terror rests waiting with a cigar
housewife on her knees tossing tears across the ephemeral sky: "why!"
a chipped tooth on a shit stain with a face, laughing over a semiautomatic symphony
two racist eight-balls grilling the two bullshit certainties till someone's ready to die

kgb's smoking blunts with clint and stops me like a gun "what's up son, let's go for a ride"
kgb is a blood brother, from since we were six, stab wound in the stomach, and hockey scars
"shit i forgot the rubbers, you got some?" i said "yeah" and we burn the homeless rags with a toast
i turn down clint's black tar and gin, you see music is the drug i love, and also women, and of course vodka

preacher with defined wrinkles plays with a hairless pair of testicles
passion transcends religious contradictions with the joyful dance of nervous sweat droplets
a drenched teenager with purky breasts awaits her lover, dense concentration concealing disbelief
a poet caught in victoria secret lingerie is hung from the the world's second tallest tower finished recently in his mind

a tall toothpick rolls out from out the trash like a spy revealing a secret but instead it's a .45
"give me your money, and shut the fuck up" kgb holds on to the cig but looses his smile
"we ain't got nothing, man, nothing but time" and the white lightning trembles between hatred and fear
and lips locked in tightly, words fail the man, and three gun wounds dramaticize the corpse on the pavement

sunday night around the table with steamed broccoli over the same sweet potato
three sons fail the father as he begins his decline, and pseudoreal regrets shake their terrified glances
an awkward girl puts her dry lips on a boy's penis because laughing he said that it was his birthday
rushing across a wet food court floor, a waitress slips, her skull cracks, and the mall audience weeps

kgb's carried away in a black womb, clint disappears like a cowboy at noon
i take out my wallet and a tear saturates the ten dollar bill, police officer touches my shoulder "i'm sorry son"
i try to start running, and crawl screaming, naked and bleeding, sparking a violent scene
but instead i melt without resistance into the dusty hot streets, drowning with my love in a difficult dream

and it is void of real meaning