He felt a
less-than-nothing most days.
A pimple on
the earth’s arse.
Face-down in
excrement, not even his own.
Hidden in a
pile of faces -
Stacked up
with nothing to say.
A screaming
irrelevance.
Pointless
and pathetic.
Yes! Oh
dear me, yes!
On the
streets he was drowned in a mass of flesh.
Loners, too,
chewed him up with suspicious eyes.
Only to spit
him out into a pavement bin.
His madness?
Predictable. Or so say I.
He lived in
the live-end
Between the
psychiatrist’s concerned finger and thumb.
He begged
for recognition.
To know him;
in some small way.
He thought:
I, me, myself. Though not in those words.
He cried: A
suck? A suck! Though not in those words.
Yes, to suck on
the droopy breast of anyone going.
Self-loathing
consumed him.
Became his
cognitive All.
It
controlled with tempting words.
With the
shelter, it gave his skeletal frame.
The
birth-mother of his stupid stupefaction.
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