Got to talking to someone about work.
Remembered this poem I wrote one day in Venezuela, having fought the rat-race of the underground.
herds of people ? HIGH ? on caffeine ? a crowd of people lulled ? ? by a morning’s ? cigarette//// ? ? a sea of heads creeping sperm-like down a corridor (and in my wildest moments i h a l l u c i n a t e and imagine i see tiny f l a g e l l u m spinning madly from the back of each head.) DESTINATION: (?) no, not an OVUM but the GAPING MAW of a hopeless bulimic, who gorges herself to MAX. CAPACITY only to vomit us back out a few minutes later and repeating the routine bingepurgebingepurgebingepurge next stop: estacion chacaito wadwipeflushwadwipeflushwadwipeflush we all go down the toilet latherrinserepeatlatherrinserepeatlatherrinserepeat we all go down the drain and then like so much twicechewedfood we stumble off drunkenly to the arms of a cruel master, selling ourselves like a prostitute for a few dollar$ more.