WISH...

My non-essentialized Dream-Self contemplates inheriting that anarchic cornucopia of barbed-wire tattoo rings, limbless clock-faces and a pretty little concrete garden where You wouldn't insist on nurturing your safety-valve rose buds of Reverence.

THE FIGHT

But finally, our lane of beggared nights would conduct under the democratic gaze of a street-lamp, ennobling shuffling-ups, of tales infinite; each such tale petitioning teary-eyed for glorious Representation, most threatening in razor-sharp prose for absolute Promotion; while crawl forth the winners, unassumingly resplendent on all fours, our street-dogs stray, as abandoned as the night-time, charming each same-same night with their uber-human Otherness.