Lifes Work

There isn’t a stage or lens to capture such entertainment as this. Touching corners never seen viewing traces unnoticed as the tour van passed on. Umbrella up rain and snow, sun in the most peculiar spaces on the soft beach sand. You, gazing at the spectacle as if it made you, browning that white bread façade so fine setting off the gold chain just right, “charmer” you think, “stud” doubt it, “frightened” oh yes baby hit that one right on the old purple head. Just a lonesome soul chaser, empty innards fiending for a bite, a social conquest of sorts or sports, who knows maybe fulfillment has existed once but long forgotten since empty visions have now become delicacy of choice, a pon shop porn hore all cozy when home alone while the discotec honey is out raising brows and licks stick. Lonesome in a waist land where some try and find the right connection.