Untitled

Written for some San Franciscian in Union Square that couldn't buy my book

First smell sickness
Like stale piss from the pores
Poor people
Scent staining the concrete, seeping through the pavement, sweating paint from the buildings
When they ask their parents about the bench pressed with body, deliberate spot marked by territory with codex like, “This is my job, and at the end of 9 to 5 I go home and f**k my wife.”
“My life is hell,” he says with a heavy emphasis on the h so you can smell his breath, “where’d you get to find happiness for 45 minutes?”
Majority of my time spent in the s**t trying to figure out how I’m going to eat
Bold italicized
Eat s**t and die yuppie scum
I succumb immediately to flattery and interest gaining
I’m not complaining but this gets a little old
Lucky to look into my eyes and see nothing
Fufill that stigma that n***a is a dirty word
Nothing but a vowel sound to make them go off like fireworks, don’t ya know
Know my place on the totem pole
Match sticks
Burn down to finger tips and flick away the ash
Acid rain
Pollution makes my eyes water
Too lazy
Fair trade and slow food resolution
Revolving doors
Thin black line
And I must be going blind because my marks look dimmer
Grease burns fill my mouth for reaching into the fire too fast, tongue blistered but nothing ever felt so good
Street sweeper sterility
Keep it down when i just want a breath
Burberry weekend
And my friend says one day this will be the gangster s**t
Silly
Six months
Swollen
Sun burns through the SPF