On the streets, people are forced to walk knee deep in poop water …
On the streets, the old people drown in shark urine and pear wine …
On the streets …
Most people have to hunt blown flesh enchilada sauce and viscera souffle as the AK-47’s wail and hum their song of splendor in the great beyond. Our cow pie selfies permit no new encouragement, and the tourist gliders pick up their kale juice from the barber and his whore.
On the streets:
- you fornicate with your landlord so they let you keep your cat despite not paying the pet fee.
- you make a knife from some broken glass, and you slit that guy’s throat for a pocket full of rock and some Lucky Strikes … and you have whiskey breath and herpes sores on your anus.
- Kester, the neg-ghoul, chases you down the alley with his cadre of FENTOR-GOOBS armed with bicycle chain and rogaine and propane and baseball bats … and you know you are getting tired, and you know no one cares.
- there is no salvation for the gutter rat that chews on his own mourning glory and the NEXT HO you find might be your momma and she’s looking good … on the streets.
