I want to leave for London so bad. Now.
Or Mao. Philippines, see the Kremlin, show the uni-digital salute to some skinhead…see if they’ll axe me.
I want to walk down an umarked street, kicking a misplaced pepsi can, see the end of a street I have never known – think about home. 1 000 0000 miles away.
As far, as exaggerated, I still want to get up, pack, fly…crawl, walk, what- ev for as long as my body fuel can burn, as far as the edge of the planet stretch.
What’s with the look?
Feel it – my chest. Or the scraggy ribcage.
It’s thumping, right? – heard of the Tum Tum dreams from West Africa?
In my veins, it’s throbbing, like an uncured erection.
Hold these thoughts…for me – as i take a leak.
The cig stick dancing on my lips, as I talk to you, holding my brief nut case.
Try to look away, as I unziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.