Texty: Subtle. Bed To The Bills.

the next day

the exact same nurse is standing with her back to me

at every last passing bus stop.

only this time, what looks like a small stack of bills

with bat wings, is hovering just beside her.

they're bound together by a narrow wishbone,

beneath it rests a large bowl full of some indistinct fruit.

waxen looking still, atop a three quarter length corinthian column.



To the left is a rather fit "right" woman's left leg,

buried thigh deep in the hallowed and wood-chip topped bus stop grounds.



the planted lady's leg looking clean shaven and hot

sweat beading up about its calf in the black avenue amplified sun

an eye blue high heel jut in full bloom on its visible end.



and so you get off...

to find two suits arguing silent

before a double-parked and obviously unmarked cop car.

the blown-up head flesh of two big business men, a-hover above them.

a good foot or two of twine dangling from their tied off throats,

running down into their hollowed dress shirt collar mouths.



you over hear them mutter something serious about...

"the second hand emotion"

and then comes something like semi-poetic directions...

" a ways down commerce...then turn, dead straight into ashe" ...



and so you walk...

predicting all possible presents in ever to bits, and back

from the bed to the bills you see nothing

but pit within pit within pit, an undeniable feeding on you

and more this...

...

A honey smothered hand gun all covered in ants,

trembles on a three quarter length corinthian column...