Scrubbing a dub version, they rub and snub the wet ones, the weak ones, the ones what have ears sticking out the wazoo. No ears to hear them get off with their heads and off their heads.
Out cold on the ground, where the cracks in the soil leave much to be buried. Between the plates, inside the inches to take hands off at the wrist, a blackness where the void is only as deep as the thought of going home.
Home, you see, is only a figment of imagination and one where the drunk and diddly spill across with the fathoms of fiction.
Release from the bowels is the only relief of each day that is free. Free from cost, freeing of strain and free from the pain of having to stay on and moving.
If only though.
Turn around and then the white goes red again from within without.
Written on Wednesday, 28 March 2007