we come in clusters

sharing taxis driven by men who sailed oceans to escape the squallor

but we love the whiff of death and seek an absence of hygiene

because we are sterile and the chemicals on our lettuces make us soft and pale

we are nothing more than subcultural revivalists

replacing self-awareness w/ enthusiasm and narcotics

climbing through the lights

skeletons in the forest

idealistic signage

lost in so many ways

I asked a man for directions

and he stammered in reply

he looked terrified

I think he was Algerian

3 AM

orgasms under canvas

then, days later…

job money

sleep lack

5 AM


while next door’s cat takes a shit in our seed trays


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