Of the Periphery
Trace elements are the only evidence that can now convict me. This goes that way. That goes that way too. Volume is now lowered so no incident reports can be submitted to local authorites who would love to finally get their hand on me. That is there. There is that. Each in its ordered place. I move around like an army disserter or an on-the-lam hit-and-run driver. Each day is a struggle to sneak from haven to safe house and avoid detection. There’s a sentimental breath to breathe. I admit that if I had a package of concubines I’d go far at a party. In my breast pocket. At night when it invades my poor curtained defenses with cinematic pulses of light is the only time I can sleep at ease. Five times four lovers and a quick lighter, a generous hand, everyone seriously pleased. All those asses in the ashtrays and swimming the lees of drunk pools the red and blue lights filter the shadows so that any intrusion can be early detected. The trace elements are the only thing to connect me to the crime just as good a place to throw your dead. Especially if you think there’s something to get out of it. If I am never detained by the authority than the trace elements will never be sought and brought to juries excited to endict men like me of gross dereliction in the face of moral, civil, and commercial indifference. This goes that way. That goes that way too. That is there. Am always on the run like a driving beat through night-time streets streaking in lights of passing cars and overheard street lights. There is that which makes me be like this. Bones should round out the bottoms. For the crop. I once used to venture outside during the day but the over-illumination singed eyes trained to ferret out trouble in the recesses of frontier whatever we’re growing. It’s surely a good thing to smoke remaining in the interconnected urban world. 

Time: 8:45

Click the image above for actual information