OUT.

Sitting and thinking always seemed to be our existential indulgence.
Those nights we'd fill our lungs with the night.
Breathing in lonliness, exhaling all oppositions.
Those nights are long past and I'm still willing myself back into them.
Just one more night of peace and quiet, one more night of silence.
Those nights, now burnt and crumpled.
They lie like a leaf on the dirty cellar floor.
Go reap your fucking wares, seller boy.
Go work the street for your own enjoyment, you scum.
Go get all you're worth, seller boy.
Fetch your dimepieces.
Fetch your dimebags.
It's all about inconvenient conveniences these days.
Fetch your lies you threw in my face, they're still waiting for you.
Fetch them and take them home to Mother.
I'm sure she'll be proud.
You've always been a man of tens.
Filthy, street-stricken dimes in your pockets.
Ten fingers keeping me calm.
Ten fingers keeping me still.
Ten quivering fingers preaching equality to each.
Ten fingered strangulations in my sleep.