Angels
I live in the city of cum-stained angels. I have seen these dirty buildings and lights since I was a child. I have known dusty waterways and smoggy skies. I have walked the path of the bums riding the bus.
You will never satisfy enough with your legalized pot smells, your tamed rebellion, your angry people of Middle Eastern nations, your corrupted hands and casting couches. Here is a Pandora’s Box with too much dirt for Sin City, too much love for San Francisco, too much yelling in foreign languages for your fellow man all but in New York. Crack babies and tired strollers filled with delicate dogs. Teased hair, and breasts that rain down on you when it thunders. Arraignments, borderlands, delis, thrift stores, hole-in-the-wall tacos, Charles Bukowski imposters like this one, fatfaced college students who call everyone a phony like Holden Caulfield. Simplistic lovers, deep and dark fetishes. The turning wheel. The automobile. Bread and butter of creators, crash diets, raw veganism and its holiness. Those who are strangely nice and unexpectedly desegregated. Money comes in love comes in money comes in me like all the men I fuck and reaches out to me with grey, branching hands. I am a cow who wants to eat her fattening French fries desolately and in peace. I am Saint Death; an escape from old lives. The drought you never discourage, even when it rains and rains for days, causing car accident stockpiles. Hovelling apartments, crowded with the hip and needy. Botanicas frequented for the wrong reasons.
Houses can be neat, picket-fenced, groomed, manicured and trimmed like so much shaved pussy. Spanish tiles. To have wanted you was a nightmare. To have worshiped you was a mistake. To have escaped you was an error. You were the womb that birthed and fixed me in my sunny place, with only one arm tanned. You have become accidentally Steampunk in your novelty. I have dueled with my hands for hours on end to be able to enjoy masturbation as much as you do. I have cried, hoped, wished, and been satisfied at the results of being used up and abandoned. I have rubbed my hand against the hard fabric of flamboyant thrift store clothing found on the ground and frowned at the pantless bum on the Promenade, only with my eyes. I will never know the joy. I know that this place keeps you from many things. “Get out of the way,” they say, like a sprinkler head with built-up pressure in it releasing and ruining a neighbor’s plans. But the ice cream truck sings a gentle lullaby, and these leafblowers enjoy being scapegoats.
There is secret butchery here, in this town of purely physical lovers, cherished libraries and bastions of new religion. Give us faith, give us hope, give us something which will simply help us sleep well. Embark on the project of bringing me newfound sincerity.
I have never wanted anything else.
You will never satisfy enough with your legalized pot smells, your tamed rebellion, your angry people of Middle Eastern nations, your corrupted hands and casting couches. Here is a Pandora’s Box with too much dirt for Sin City, too much love for San Francisco, too much yelling in foreign languages for your fellow man all but in New York. Crack babies and tired strollers filled with delicate dogs. Teased hair, and breasts that rain down on you when it thunders. Arraignments, borderlands, delis, thrift stores, hole-in-the-wall tacos, Charles Bukowski imposters like this one, fatfaced college students who call everyone a phony like Holden Caulfield. Simplistic lovers, deep and dark fetishes. The turning wheel. The automobile. Bread and butter of creators, crash diets, raw veganism and its holiness. Those who are strangely nice and unexpectedly desegregated. Money comes in love comes in money comes in me like all the men I fuck and reaches out to me with grey, branching hands. I am a cow who wants to eat her fattening French fries desolately and in peace. I am Saint Death; an escape from old lives. The drought you never discourage, even when it rains and rains for days, causing car accident stockpiles. Hovelling apartments, crowded with the hip and needy. Botanicas frequented for the wrong reasons.
Houses can be neat, picket-fenced, groomed, manicured and trimmed like so much shaved pussy. Spanish tiles. To have wanted you was a nightmare. To have worshiped you was a mistake. To have escaped you was an error. You were the womb that birthed and fixed me in my sunny place, with only one arm tanned. You have become accidentally Steampunk in your novelty. I have dueled with my hands for hours on end to be able to enjoy masturbation as much as you do. I have cried, hoped, wished, and been satisfied at the results of being used up and abandoned. I have rubbed my hand against the hard fabric of flamboyant thrift store clothing found on the ground and frowned at the pantless bum on the Promenade, only with my eyes. I will never know the joy. I know that this place keeps you from many things. “Get out of the way,” they say, like a sprinkler head with built-up pressure in it releasing and ruining a neighbor’s plans. But the ice cream truck sings a gentle lullaby, and these leafblowers enjoy being scapegoats.
There is secret butchery here, in this town of purely physical lovers, cherished libraries and bastions of new religion. Give us faith, give us hope, give us something which will simply help us sleep well. Embark on the project of bringing me newfound sincerity.
I have never wanted anything else.
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