Scurrying like bugs and dope fiends,
virile enough for a throat to cut.
Lunging, darting,
wriggling crowd.
A cenotaph of civility,
“I thought you had him this weekend Paul.”
Shift blame like bags in hands.
“Free up those claws for trinkets, kids!”
Locusts, sick on gorged fields,
writhing ripples of foam at the mouth.
Engorged wraiths spewing billowing sheets of bills,
blowing in the wind,
snorting up all the good blow,
jagged and terse
“We thought you was cool man,”
a face full of veins and teeth.
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