Loft, one-room apartment,
Slanted ceiling, shallow bed,
Springs holding true to my form,
Grime encrusted window, dirt-caked.
No point in washing it,
Then I would have to see the world
And who would witness,
The huddled masses,
Standing in their rugged lines,
On the courthouse steps
Freezing in their long suits and coats,
Jittering and smacking bullshit.
So I sit in my loft,
Higher in the highest,
Keeping warm with a burnt-out
Gas stove, which due to centuries of neglect,
May very well explode and incinerate me.
Where’s the alcohol?
I’ll light the fire myself!
With naught but a burnt up cigarette
And rolls upon rolls of art and writing paper,
With which I intend,
To tell the world’s injustice
And to expose those fiends,
Standing tall but troubled,
On those courthouse steps.
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