Overcast Las Vegas day chain smoking nut-job
Overcast Las Vegas day chain smoking nut-job. They got these things all over the city, which are essentially "drop-boxes" for single, scared mothers who don't want their newborns. When put into use at the Emergency Room, an alarm goes off to signal the nurses to come to the rescue. It provides a lighter alternative to the blatant thud and crackle of infant skull on the bottom of the dumpster. Still, when the bodies hit the bottom, millions of young girls cry as they run away from the scene, getting sick on the oily asphalt as the spinning plumes of blue body-smoke are released into the air.
Millions of couples are forming foursomes to elicit some excitement into their routines. As the couples eye each other working away, they are filled with loathsome amounts of jealousy and fear, the negative energies lending to an elevated force behind the animal thrusting, further compounding the initial feelings that led to the catharsis to begin with. The cycle expands upon itself until brains and sexual organs alike implode upon impact and decorate the walls with plasma.
False anger and apprehension and you hear their words, strapped lightly to a clock, as life ticks away. A crowd full of savants, rendered useless by their single minded agendas. Only because you belong. And then, there you are. You get washed in the shower, because essentially, you are filth. You scrub the open hole in your head and douse it with whiskey.
While you swing lightly from the stars and above the city that never knew you. Prived, depraved, and paragraphs, under-paid. Someone from a crowd and hear your words like a recognized force. Drool at the thought of being. The chance to be in my heart. I beg the whore. And willing to die for it. Because you fire the words, and the image of your head. Like a well made fossil on your face, make it count, and count the red scars. Saturate the wrists of young girls like helium.
Burn the night, and the blank streets. Make you blind, make you hurt, stick hot pokers in your eyes, make you squirm like you got kabob skewers stuck in your ears. Your corpse hanging true and bold to the built in sprinkler system, bolted to the ceiling. My teachers, and the dawn, yes. And then, the wordless staring. The empty pipes. Songs that stick, and one-breasted cunts that sail. Blood stained and hot.
All of their well-oiled machines, my heart going thump, the dying process kicking in, sitting down in a white room, one table, two chairs, one cup coffee (black.) you sit and face a ski-masked person who is you underneath, but says and does nothing (sits and breathes, breathes, like a cold lump something…)
Walk down the hall to get washed in what was left for you. If ever,
Stuck like velcro to the Doctor's velveeta couch, I recite these words, diagnose myself and recommend treatment: avoid ski masks as much as possible, lay off the caffeine, provide aid to 1 young mother looking to dump her fetus and 2 foursomes.
Wouldn't you?
