don't tell me let me figure it out

the kids hock and spit and raise their shirts to slap their bellies and
one has tats up his neck and a half-shaved head with hair gelled back and
they cackle laughter like rifle fire
they squawk and jostle and swagger and prowl through the city

he has flowers in a blue bouquet that look fancy-expensive

(lucky thing)

oh they're dressed nice, real fine - armani, or something - i wouldn't know

but they're hungry, that's for certain

(what do you want for when you get home? what do you imagine in wait?)

the heat feels like some sci-fi film i might yet write where the sun strips your skin from your flesh in forty seconds

it would make a good ticking-clock in the parlance of that stuff
i imagine a fictional world where a civilisation might actually pay attention to the omens

the kids spit on the street again and laugh like morons as i follow them through chinatown

i think - i just want to get around you
becomes - i just want you to not exist