|the friend of a friend wakes up every morning looking out his window to meet the day, in a home he'll never pay off before he passes away. the debt grows as he gets old. forty years left to go, only eight thousand dollars in his bank account at all times, never less, sometimes more. sad sad sad how success to him is a great failure to most.
the man with a strait-jacket repeats words over and over until he cannot tell whether or not they are real words any longer. "fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog fog. cash cash cash cash cash cash cash cash cash cash cash cash cash." giggles insanity and happiness, it's music to his ears, he feels his joy deep inside his stomach and laughs aloud when he feels the wind tickle him behind his ears.
the banker breathes heavy with a maid laying underneath, her eyes are shut hard. his sweat rolls down his forehead and falls salty onto her lips. she spits and spits. he groans and moans. three years strong now, they've been at it like this before. some weeks he wants his wife more than he can say, and some days his wife simply will not lick, touch or play.
the machinist is working for his pay. small situations in his life have already claimed his next paychecks pay. smells of burning metal and sounds of hulking machines have been his source of familiarity for the past twenty-five years. while his dreams are to move close to home, home is in Detroit and there is nothing there but pain.
the thirty-eight year old woman sits on a stool in panties and a bra, stomach soft and sag. her ass, plump and round. around the cloth, covering her crotch, glossy wire pubic hairs reach for light. her legs look like nylon stockings filled with mashed potatoes. they ask if she swallows, she replies, "always." they ask if they can record this, she says, "yes."
the quiet married woman has no properly working reproductive organs. she cries in the shower when her husband's away. he tells her to be tough, but she knows he means, "shut the fuck up!". her family urges a divorce, while her pastor continues counseling & her husband rarely shows up. while all the while she's stuck in the middle, pleasing everyone. just a pleasing pleasant little dove.
as i sing:
i know that you're dying
& i know i'm unwell
and together we sashay
through variations of hell
& as you walk through valleys of fear the lure of my bed is ever near
Oh, don't be afraid though the parade will not pass our way
it's nobler to never get paid than to bank on shit and dismay!!!
Comments 1 to 3 of 3
Comments 1 to 3 of 3