The sweaty June bug nights, click, cricket leg ringing. Needle park subway, sandwich eating, stale cigarette, smiling on youthful pigeons. Feather fucked ghosts of brick layers city, dust wearing denim dotted, ink pen holy. While this candle flickers like wind chimes, radar love songs, these birds chirp like the bridge pillar boys. Junkie glazed donuts, sweetened black, pot kettle burn marks tattooed over regrets.
It was no summer of love, just lonely hearts bleeding out with the north side alley cat flea baggers. They would scratch apart the thin paper skin, torn open, puss riddle sores, viciously dripping like a red nose ranger. Those shadowy soul suckers wandering neighborhood trash can bodegas and sink hole pubs, paying with loose change and promises of tomorrow’s big payout. Yet we sat amongst them, the lost lousy liars club writing regurgitated outsider masterpieces on college ruled pages.
We are stink bugs, just old tuna cans wishing we were something real, true grit. Just a couple half suburban dope fiend, drop outs, wasted but surviving on the pleasantries of our shaken privilege. If we died there, on those roach ripped couches between salty, ashtray ringworms and soggy evangelistic opportunists, we’d be police blotter gold, found naked shoeless scandal clad. No true crime though, just broken up weirdos, earthquake detox, hot box, alone on third floor walk of up mattresses. In and out of rehab meat counter days, left us cut into long lost lovers covered in records and poetry.