A whitened frost lingers on open ground : right
where I used to get drunk. Cars still roll past
Bedford and Barrow. No one talks anymore.
All I see are the lights of little screens : alien faces
peering down. Little Devils with their shits. And
I am drunk enough again to fly, while they
look down into some inner abyss. Lamebrain
asses working swing shifts.
Someone is filming a nighttime movie right over
there - all those lights and brackets in place, and the
tall female actress is freezing. I can tell. I can tell.
I can tell : you want to kiss my conclusion?