7127. ALL HANDS

ALL HANDS

Desolation angels and all the rest : dark-night patrols

of cigarette smoke and whiskey. We always passed 

out on the dock. There was never anyone sensible around :

14th street junkies, Hudson Street whores, a jolly fag

or three trysting on the wooden walkway. Any cops

there were were on the take and only there for that 

reason anyway. 'Put that thing away boy, before I

shoot it off you.' Heard that plenty of times  -  an Irish

cop or two talking to someone equally swinish. The

Superior Ink Building, right nearby, threw its likely

shadows over the two contorted figures. My brothers,

my friends, what else are we going to do? It's 1968

and the whole entire world is sucking : things are

falling off as quickly as they're placed. I've got no

respect for Lyndon B., he's a Texas asshole sluggard

making war and lies together. Pedernales asswipe, a

truly insipid but evil man. All hands on deck

while we ring his neck. Any noise we heard was

overhead; the West Side Highway with all

overpasses crumbling, and the roar of 

town to the tunnel nearby.