STRAGGLER IN DISGUISE

Folder: 
POSE AS PROSE

 

This damned train rolls along so slowly that I feel like I’m gonna die but I don’t.  No, that would be too easy and I never get off easy get off too easy for me, so I struggle on in my public slang with visions of Kerouac nestled under the tracks.  They are rolled over and grounded into a new form of nothingness and these rants continue.  Who else to do it?  I ain’t known any salvation.  I see the river run south to sea and blood let water flow on cause and a car bluntly maneuvering city streets.  Ah, these fantasies are so intense.  My TV head not focusing on the fine print of the page.  I write because it’s the easy way out of this shit.  Senor Caca de Toro.  That must be me.  Ah, a straggler in disguise.  I now look at the part of insanity.  All my dippie hipplie shit laughed at by juvenile delinquents and abandoned warehouses fill me with disgust towards politicians.  And no other way but home again.  Ah, to the North, I ride leaving this damned city beyond and I must say it’s not one moment too soon.




 

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