Poem 09/08/06

Dress is trendy.
Ranks of suits masterbate furiously against the bar as we push through and order.
Brains pulsing as we shoot the breeze and more else besides.
Plans.
Always planning.
Planning drugs and events.
Arranging madness to come.
Sorrows in progress.
Well meant schemes to wreck what is left of us.
It'll come out in the wash, of course.

Loving the anticipated moment of release:
Our souls set adrift on the wind.
Dirty tarmac, used glasses and rows of other people's cars.
Streets around us.
Our way through.
Impending worries and the stench of sin.
It floods our pores.
Leaves us reaking.
Rumbling home, I feel no dread
That is tomorrow's breakfast.
Tomorrow's preserve.