he sits alone in his cubicle atmosphere
the claustrophobia inducing room he calls home..
upon the rumpled bedsheets lies his ass
(and melancholic like..)
his head rests contemplatively
upon perspirating palms
(peter piper picked a peck of pickled peppers)
unkempt hair stubbornly falls into face
(the lice are so athletic in the filth)
and scraggly beard is in custody of the hair
haunted eyes gazing out of sockets bleakly 
pondering his most recent dilemma of murder
his wrinkled and dirtied linen uncared for
of course..
"holy" pants old and tattered beyond hope of mending
(no pun intended)
-
yes, he broods in a fashionable state of philosophy
approaching each available arguement and rebuttal objectively
(circular reasoning, circular reasoning..)
(look, i'm back at the very beginning!)
and in a profound daze of absent mindedness..
his hands covering himself in a trench coat
(the leather bound books tightly under arms)
le chapeaux est sur son tte..
(and i can't speak french)
his feet casually strolling him along the street
here and there, there and here?
through the dilipidated haymarket..
where merchants spout their shit.. (propaganda)
pimp their whores.. (hooker, prostitute, working girl)
sell their products for our fatass dirty dollar
(oh, america is, oh, america is, oh, america is..)
(so grand ain't it?)
(there goes our circular reasoning again...)
-
the economy is f ck d, the homeless are  u  e
the politicians are  u  e , society is f ck d
education is f ck d, the workplace is  u  e
     a m e r i c a  i s  f u c k e d
(fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck)
(well............. fuck.)
and so is..
is it? of course, yes, of course it is
(light a candle for the sinners..)
(set the world on fire)
-
just as his feet carry him to the wrought iron gate
his hands just as surely snap up (limply) from his sides..
pushing it aside..
slowly plodding his way towards the entrance
and coincidentally up the decrepit stairs..
as people of different shapes and sizes shove past him..
tenants, movers, pimps and whores, idiots and intellectuals
(what a psychological zoo..)
-
his hand reaches nervously.. up... up.... up.....
muscles clenching, bones grinding..
fingers closing around bell pull..
down.. down... down....
and the sound distinctly is driven into the ears..
gong
ring
ring
gong
latch is drawn from hook, locks unlocked..
(fearfully, like an anxious rabbit..)
and there before him stands a haggard old woman..
(pawnbroker? oh yes, she is, she is.. wretched)
she peers from between the crack in the door and the jam timidly
and suspiciously..
oh, what a hoarder the old bitch is.
greasy hair plastered to head, in a style of uncleanliness..
high forehead wrinkled with age of meaninglessness
mouth drawn into a mask of suspicion, hatred, greed..
and flimsy, soiled dress covers the frail body..
(harsh, biting, like jack frost of january)
fingers clutched weakly onto door..
"you again.. what do you want?"
she intones, her voice decaying, bereft of civility..
"i've another pledge for you."
he says timidly, nervous, nervous, nervous, nervous..


 Eterna




SAUCE00Untitled                           Eterna              Scrollz             19981227r                                    