Sunday, August 23, 2009

Play a fiddle like you've got five pennies in your pocket

Don't rush up a street on your way to a meeting

Walk up a lane under a big blue sky

Don't furrow under the concrete that smacks down your eye to exhausted fumes

Look left and see rooks fly up from a bramble, a tree, or something other than urban furniture

Don't wind your options down with bitter scraps fed through the usual incoming stew of paper inconsequence, invoicing the inner voice that daily says fuck this thing

Instead shoot up pure heroin in a forest

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