in queer nets brushing the blushing bulges, bald top 

paperbag bothered cats feasting into oranges 

festively in the face of this wooden dawn and 

milky midnight mosaics, arriving at 

venerated pavements by yawning ex-sailor grey-faced

ex-cop grey hat endorsing shenanigan searching mid-life 

crisis wreck in some bargained overalls

“stomp back to your islands,” the dilapidated rooftops yelled 

in blood and tears. they flood the commercial sidewalks

the naked bunch with pierced lips drenched in anguish with

no need for myth “just hush and just thrust that crusty leg here

and don’t make yellow eyed puppy dog glances at me

this is business and not the serious kind

my satisfaction comes second to my time spent wasted”

this is my infinite companion in wage waves

on sidestreets in mythical Arabian temples 

with chained bone blonde hair six feet beneath 

a hellish kitchen all dressed in bleak, in rains

of exasperated raincoat pleas to exhausted stacked prisoners

heading through black medical doors in trucks

of whimper past the eternal eyeless mist-hatted man 

sticking this vast cities wondering tune into

some plague behind him, all sleepy citizens can hear the saxophone

cries to the rolling spines of sleep and life in rain stores

with crazy crashing fingertips digging through papers

clicking, plopping, hopping through his signatures dark approval

caking the thousand crying feet bent ditch jawed betty’s with 

teary smoke emanating from their vast, cold noses into the endless mouths

of these greasy Left Wing low-salary “I’ll love you for this second”

wonderous shuffling potato sacks in humourous cursive strolls

they roll slowly in blind secrecy vans blind faced with long hands

torn jeans and wicked eyelids hiding a cruel passion 

his lips smirk, bent like some ancient historical landmark weather beaten

searching for some joy, “hey it ain’t nothing but a joyride

this life and times lantern newspaper in the lumps of our throats”

avenues that bear cement sunlight shuddering in breezes of some 

shivering fix in the pits of a raising, fruitless existence

with Brando charm they flutter through cottage gutters of paradise 

diving into the sidewalks shadow deafening the instinct that should

be neglected, fat hairy Mexican girls become spectacles to passions

carrying a stalking hatred in newspapers, culturally in the hands of jazz,

reluctant to meet a stranger and leave strangers after remaining strangers

for endless trolley burdens that seek their hunger and wage wars with 

toddlers once cherished by the high heavens now some forlorn shade of 

polished to meet your standards flesh wastes with Oscar Wilde potential 

head hanging low like the drool of a thick-lipped beloved child in the 

swaying arms of his blazing sweet-breasted push-up bra mother praising air 

on the dead end dusty sidestreets waiting for lifes refund

(Source: nebraskah)

somebody ask me something or chat 

writing some prose about prostitutes that work near to where i live