Fluorescent Swearing

Streetlights flood the empty lanes of your
heart with shadow and fluorescent swearing;
The gutters run rich with your next meal
of regurgitated sorrow. Involuntarily and wholly
unladylike. Now stand up an be a man!

The train tumbles in a straight line to the
blood splattered like graffiti on your stucco skin;
'X' marks the spot, 'XXXX', stitches across your
eyelids and. Quite possibly over the remains of your
soul. At least it's holding together.

Dial-a-friend, Rent-a-conscience, Hire-a-shoulder-to-cry-on
or at least to break down the splintering door;
Filth and your pet morality have found
a home behind the Ark of the Covenant: Your sour-milk
toilet bowl. Metric, imperial or anarchist?

You can't leave Mr./Ms./Miss/Mrs., you haven't completed the form.