Slap-dash and number-eight wire are all I have today.
And they're always looking for a bigger sound.
And I can't keep replacing myself.
Or upgrading myself to open doors with my skin.
The response of the audience is so moving.
Disgust and pity more than outright hatred.
All right. All right. I'll come down. I promise.
The smell of clean sheets and a cold dinner tray.
An array of vents and ducts and sprinklers on the roof.
And whether there's a way out is unsure.
I dwell on a paradox.
My cynicism is accumulating.
I lack the will to go and buy junk food.
The cupboards are full of beans.
I've been to the pharmacy so often recently they know my name.
For Cash and Bataille.
First published here.