Saturday Night

We sit. Emaciated mares
braying plumes of steam
to cloud the passing of
a winter sun. Gathered
here to pile in corners,
bags of skin and brittle
bone, we laugh together,
spiny twisted insects,
throwing pale Bowie poses
crazy across the walls.

Lit by candles and christmas
lights, brawling in the halls,
tapping ash into beer cans,
we sit. Someone mentions skag,
we look at our hands.
We should be pissing from
the rooves, blunting our horns,
but we're fed America, we'll live
our bit parts and bloat and choke
on fast food, and be glad.

I step out on the street
and taste chlorine on my
tongue, I rub my eyes
and yawn. I'm still young.
I grin, and gape in all these
lights, and feel my face go
numb. I'm Belial's son,
I'll grin my skeleton
grin, and move on.