My mind's eye on a cocktail stick all a'float
in the great urinal. Backed up in a service
station out of time.
Out of service.
Floating amidst the froth of a thousand
miserable piss artists. And many thousands
more.
Face down, cornea down, all a'bobbing to the
beat of 8 billion ball cocks.
We choked it all down.
We choked it all down.
We found ourselves in a battle of wits with
processed meats.
Mechanically separated ideologies. Sheen of
plastic choking on cheap shots.
Human shields as if it's even worth wasting a
shield on.

Merry, merry micturition stations. Everybody's
cross.
All herrings red.

Pick a colour. Any colour. As long as it's
horrible.
The prize was a raised eyebrow each and no
feigning of surprise.
Swelling with pride.
Spitting nails from our shitty prefab posing
plots.
Two out of three for two men's fermentations
sake, then?
Not for the first time versus this humourless
precipitation, let's hit the ground running.
Let's hit the ground running.
Bursting without enthusiasm...

...Bursting without enthusiasm.
I'll be leaving a brutish smear across the
gods' linoleum.
The place should be condemned, really.
After all, pride comes before a fall.
And sometimes after.
Sometimes after.