Beat #1

The fabric torn, collapsing in the wind while the wind sheared on and on
and the power of the people was harnessed in a driving rain
the pain of mistimed opportunities, of drunken raw emotion
of making the right decision then proving themselves wrong

the tied up bastard, covered in sweat and drool and cum,
loneliness, exorbitant feedble-minded emptiness
and the pain of knowing that cunt just tore him a new one

a coffee stain round the blender, a bender, a long tired night of sleeplessness
hopelessness and mildew, dripping inconsistently in a tight rat-a-tah-a-tah-a-tat

and the lost little boy, driving rage before him, consumes him, destroys
the wish that he could wake like his mother, wrapped up in ignorance and hope
a tricky slippery soap, the duck hanging limply from the independence and hate
the bruises, cut sharply, staggered down the face into the ball of incandescent sobbing
a whimpering, slobbering pity
a drunken old city
fresh from the raging rhythm of the night
a single bleak note shattering the still


"Fucking old cunt of a car."
Jimmy turned the key again, the rusted pipes bellowing a cancerous cough into the night. Starting this piece of shit junket was Dave's idea of a good time. Fucking Dave. It had been forty-five minutes since that fucker had slipped into the darkness to find help. The tiny gas station back down the road, with the flickering lightglobe, the retro blue-and-red and the fat man licking his lips and rubbing his nipples as Jimmy handed over his last twenty an hour ago.
Jimmy sighed, got out of the car, tossed the keys into the bushes then began to trudge back down the road.