Skid row junkies shuffle dance like broken bears. They smile spoiled milk and stink of stale sweat and rotted flesh. The zombie nation has risen. Semi stiff cardboard men – flaccid humanity face down in the gutter. Hostile corners teem with cockroach people - knives half shut with disgraceful wings. Blood is brown clotted on the lips of scarecrow men with hair on fire. Three overcoats wrapped around breathless bodies. Dull drunk and frenzied sober faces searching for significance - thirsty souls on a death mission. Every bindle stiff who can lift his lids eyes you up for the short prize
“Can you spare some change… “
And why are you here?
Did you get lost?
Are you passing through, or have you joined the congregation of the cockroach god?