Your tears will turn to petals.

The city trees are caked in smut. Belisha beacons picked out by the frail absoption of wisps of sleet, reflecting blinks of stop signs and traffic lights are their Christmas decorations. And it is good.

This punk taxi is full of muck. Water stains and burnt impressions, yellow blurs, discarded scabs. 1197 feet and 1000 arses have regaled this blessed spot this month. Shadows boo, dissect the windows, falling off the boot and crashing, constant ghost in smoke and puddles. 

Your coat is brown and clearly cheap, made in China, the factory of the world. Look at your trousers, studded with buttons, like a line of broken tears / one day you hope, those buttons will be pearls and your tears will turn to petals, slowly rolling down your cheeks. 

In Diogenes' cabin with 1000 new-year flyers; anti Semitic by definition, coarse imprecations of vanity, appealing to latent hedonism inherent in the masses, reverted to tripe, chicken hearts for the goy. Wankers to the left of us, ingrates to the right, please stand five yards away when you talk to me, 
don't forget to be polite to me, you piece of trash 
i fucked up everything today

what a great Thursday.

21.12.17

pic - irina savage