Moving again, running, anxious,
Late for change, kinda hurt,
Stuck, vague as dust,
With wages, holidays, sleep,
And holy suburban punk routines.
My friend, a bottle of wine,
Took my name down, under
A statue, bronzed, cold,
Of fallen soldiers.
The bus ride in,
Held to my chest. This is love.
I grabbed his slender neck
And left my body.
The jungle tried to swallow me.
Its no coincidence, walking westward,
Found a bar before midday.
Met a starry eyed john, who
Told me, with autonervous twitch,
"I like the vicious, hard cocks here.
Just last week punched my mouth,
Kissed his thigh.
You got time?"
Its not my hotel room.
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