Monday morning street ride
p. 67 · Read in the full issue
By Seri
At war all night with the bottle this back world itch of crabs and slime as I kick last night’s butts towards USP thus breaking monotony of living in tin-can reservation Raiwaqa: the smell of the meth bottle in salivas and hair the seven virgin bottles lie with the boys on the crash pad floor; all empty, giving the sniff of the local dispensary—carefree like blown out bubble gum on the sidewalk—had plenty of experience, black bitches, liquor and crime and now: to rot and be trodden upon I took it all last few nights to shake it off these few morns and by jolly feel the lice drum the heavies and cold glass hang-over; once, by once, till the rear extreme bumps the Monday Morning Street Ride.
And nothing seems the same any more every bus-stop and us-stop for hissing cabs breaking off the iron jam would pancake the booze pneumonia flat.
People sucking their mucus under fat umbrella squeeze their bulbous noses to cover the baritone bawlings blowing like an oV Louis’ flat saxophone.