Monday, September 7, 2015


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.

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