yever gettit
that sinking feeling- like the whole flea-ridden room is necking you in the corner. like the srip-poker-losers from the dairy docks are oiling themsleves in front of full bodied-mirrors, and making goggly eyes at you and morse code with their hammocks. that heavy feeling when you know that the only reason you don't dissolve is that you don't qualify, but you only can when youre and old feeble pee angel. watering the outskirts of the old city, where the wirey fences hold back babied infected with garden rot, or worse, jelloeye, and the local beggars actually look detoxified but smell like the other side of the universe where the rotten scraps adhere. that part of the town in the gullybridge district with soups of nothing and skeltonian horses. the feeling of a nail goes in slowly, the toe gets aware and the body falls on the rest of the glassy sparkle, making noises like braying of hell. oh well,

