Fossil Fuel
Whatever
they
had been
drinking
on their
pub
crawl to end
all
pub crawls
did
nothing to
suppress
the acrid
scents
of house
fires,
days and
nights
spent in
dark
cellar pits
wreathed
by yellow DO
NOT
CROSS scene
tapes,
drenched by
high
pressure hoses,
a scent that
lingers
in City
Mission
reject
clothes,
redefining
scaled
and layered
skin,
giving new
meaning
to their
near-dying
requests for
high
octane fuels
for
tanks stuck
way
below empty
Zipperhead
2
Someone at
the Psyche
Center must
have
decided there
was
one too
many
full Blue
Moons
on his shift
at
Security and
said
the hell
with
all this
noise
letting
anyone
ambulatory
with
the will to
travel
and see the
world
at large
though it
was
kind of
sick
to burden
sub-
normals and
zip-
perheads with
folding
money
for their
drinks
of choice
once
they got
outside
Watching
them
trying to
connect
two severed
hemi-
spheres of
thought
and attempting
to
order stuff was almost
as painful as knowing
the shock treatment
that awaited them
once they got
back inside
Green Haus
He had this
strange
corona
of singed
hair
and
unnaturally
white skin
instead
of hair,
eyebrows
and a scalp,
a fringe
that
seemed to
be
gradually
leeching
the skin
from
his body,
tapping
vital fluids,
blanking
out the washed
away blue of
his
unfocused
eyes
as if his
personal
ozone layer
had
spontaneously
decayed
leaving
him
vulnerable,
naked,
totally
exposed to
the
fatal
elements
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