Laundry tuesday I smell you
Chlor urine City jamming
Bisyclom
protesting light show tunnel me
as ideas loose grip
formulating factory
control
abandon empty attempt.

Metaphor routine
pork fume oozing delivery service.
Why? I ask, should I try, I mean
do you have to believe in me
going out of date?

Simple remember a day
an old song
sung in the first minor coming out of chance.
Tip well bastard or go straight out of line
and crawl in mud
back to hell.
Yr out: NEXT!

Many mornings now
my belly squeek and it turn me blownup
pocketed within out.
The lonesome bus drags me sleepy eyes
over a yellow street-rag
a sign, a past.
Is this where the Doomgray get of to feel
and touch
wet shoes walk among blister and defeat.

The Godnervous passenger make quick statement
jugging from here to there
'I must get off.'
The church call
wound his low point in history
will you be his friend?
God
are you good now?

Who is now filled with leaking pride
always looking out from the wrong place.
Sad is a mystery, will you not agree
when you lack of inspiration.

The bus keep wheeling and i´m still on it.
Fresh cuts, a naked life
soon a piece in plaster
waiting for another ingredient to happen.

The work was hard for me today
and i´m still here
with beat feet
quick back to my corner
city apartment
one room kitchen bathroom closet and
I am still on the bus.

Where are you November morning?
I´m happy though very tired
and blown up belly ache.
Yesterday I cut my finger
the wound is healing
so it must be
i´m still OK.

The mysteria is working
eager to let me live.

That has to mean I still have a purpose.