The late night scene burdens
On the turbulence of the 9 to 5 workers.
Here, the Writer finds the neon for his voids.
Boiling loins burning through piss stains
And pissed drunk membranes.
Here slither sluts, outcasts, frats, niggas, and crackheads,
Gathering birds begging for Night’s breads.
And once again, the Writer flicks lonely cigarettes,
These daughters of Jim beam whispering wet thighs.
He keeps licking his lips,
An animal for those three ton hips.
He stalks that ass down Baltimore Ave.
Where each sultry succubus
Has tumultuous tits.
Reaching stiff hands on lonely pockets,
In the G-String hospice.
But the Writer is an underage prick
Left to wander in the thick
Of the jungle.
Humble and starving for artistry in this “Charm City”.
Sans comrades through war torn states of mind,
As the harsh breeze forces him alive.
He peddles loose coins to passersby,
Bank account ever bleeding.
Somewhere off Lombard comes the hard truth.
Three desperate breeders waving short swords
Hoarding shorter tempers;
Death is so tempting.
Calming cool waters run rapid in his spine.
Knuckles fine tuned beg time after time,
Let loose quiet violence born
Of this bastardized bullshit.
Stay your mind young Writer,
Bare teeth and strike.
Fuck humanity. Strip your bitch-made flesh.
Dance in the wreckage.
Dance monkey, dance!
Love the pain.
Then, goodbye bruised knuckle adrenaline.
The Writer watches the waves of filth hit the pier.
He’s tired, in-between fear.
Lungs take tobacco on top of stale sea air.
He fucking loves this city.
He needs that corner.