There are Christs and there are Christs, there is salvation and there is salvation, you can keep chipping away at the ice as long as you want as far as I’m concerned but the water keeps dripping regardless of whether you plug the dam, it’s really immaterial, so make a house out of old sticks and settle down for the winter my friend. I’m being beat to death by posses of upbeat nihilists, who talk on the phone to each other deep into the night, burning pots of popcorns which they for some reason still cook on the stove and while they’re smashing clubs into the side of my head over and over I’m screaming “buy a microwave buy a microwave” but it seems to be falling on deaf ears. The god of this place is traffic, so don’t blame me if you can’t stick it in the city of roads, a car dealership is a palace a temple a financial watershed so go talk to a priest if you’re running out of money or credit, maybe some excellent young men with bright futures can help you out, though I doubt they’ll want to, I think they have far too much on their mind, such as that is, and wherever you are. Well, on the flip side, money is what you make of it, and different strokes for different folks, and don’t shit where you eat and don’t bite the hand that feeds you, and red sky in the morning is shepherd’s warning, early to rise, early to bed, early to rise, early to bed.
Daniel Holmes is a writer currently living in Kensington. He was recently published in ‘no more poetry’ magazine.