Sometimes it's important to remember the "hey well, fuck 'em" attitude that seemed once perilous youth.
Sometimes it's better to be pissed and beaten to a pulp, ten paces from the edge of the fucking world wondering just how much rope it'll take to hang the whole fucking crew until they are dead.
How much you'd need left to tie your own line.
Choking on deflation and berated by the sound of others joyful suffering.
Mark your silence with indignance.
Let them speak your name over and over again as if their's were the last gospels heading to skin press and your tongue was the slip.
Faults ripple your head.
Flaws in vision and present company. just waiting to be naked and alone before the hopeless glow of pornography against the empty can through the water. the smoke. the power to bleed seven shades of cruel ink and leave ellegies to the suited boys with their crossed and hallow wards.
Some living for some other evening.
Sneers to eclipse the light.