There aren’t many pigeons in the inner city. Hardly any. I guess the sceptic funk waves them off too.
That fucking bridge irritates me. Shitty little queen Elizabeth bridge. Some aged over privileged royal prune with her name on my shit. Fuck her.
I travel to the burbs for peace and quiet. Little eateries hemmed in by stretches of unique nest, rolling lawns, high walls, great tits.
Every driveway the center of attention, many of the locals behave in this landlocked fashion too. Too busy to notice anyone around them during the day, too drunk not to be noticed at night. It’s no easy feat, this exercise in middle class utopia, these perks are expensive. All those fiery hoops rubbed raw with over use and not for nothing. That right kind of perversity comes at a steep premium. The piper doesn’t do installments, cash up front and hurry, the queue looks edgy.
The heavy collusion between intent and reality becomes apparent. Our bluffs aren’t just called, but celebrated for the scale of their wrongness. Cunty dick starved princesses and dapper morally grounded rape faced glory boys all reach and plunge into the huddle. Socially acceptable orgasms all around. To deviate is a heinous crime against civility. Simon says call a priest.
What good fortune that hamster wheels come synced. Chauffeured trophy receptacle brood schemes a plenty. We fill but every hole. Shots fired, stretchers for snow collisions, everyone stare, everyone forget.
Cold baths work for alcohol induced shock. Smoke a touch of h to get lower. One up for the testosterone boys. Coffee for those on the monitors.
Right, everyone as they were.
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