KETTLE BUMS
Not the glory of the drums; just the bums.
Those streetside guys who hang around the
fires in barrels. Leaning against a signpost
or fence, or something larger covered in
shitty graffiti. The landlord wants it gone;
the street crowd, with their lattes, say it's
Art, with a capital A. A big, fancy car
rolls by; ravenous and wild in its polish
and space. Rap Star or mogul. Anxiety.
Notoriety. New Variety. Impropriety.
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All these sidewalk mirrors, they reflect
nothing. The model's teeth are gone. The
cocktail crowd lined up at the curb is
facile. Dumb. Stupid, and Loud.
Anxiety. Notoriety. New Variety.
Impropriety.
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