suicides a passable conversationalist

this place is sad   and the people are crazy  not any more or less crazy than anywhere else but here they say the people are crazy   the buses go on their long pilgrimages at night  empty as money  and get sucked into the blackness of the wind    everyones friendly they say   as friendly as viruses i think      im in love with the fishmonger and imagine humping her in the dirty office over a heap of codguts and the smell of sex and death so one the whonymjoining seems an alienation worthy of eden   in love for a second anyway   long for love i think   money lasts a lot longer   thats because its empty   sos love boofhead   how many of you are there   were all in this together and the thiss your body   this place is sad   ive fulfilled the prayers of sages i think the outer and inner are one   sadness has brought peace to the worlds   my body weeps like buses   to language is to cry and im a bus on the gonad route in the city of nowhere   my lovers sex is a fish and im a hook without quota or mercy   i reek like centuries and crave children of stench   lineages of viscera stretching on racks of gutted time   her vulvas a kipper and its meat vibrates in frequencies of loss   sex is a dumpster of death and i dive into it for discarded boxes of putrid life      spring has come and its snowing like january   i dream of india like an idiot   its 38 in veri nici and i see false holy things crawl by the ghats like exhausted rodents   hallucinating again she says   and i dig into myself to seek whos talking   oh its the fishmonger they say shes mad like the rest of you   and while wed like to be comforted by this and in a sense are its more that nothing has happened but suicides dropped by for a visit again