Written under my bridge somewhere in Amsterdam:
My buttocks have no skin left, my feet dangle in the passing, pristine, ice cold waters of Amsterdam's polluted canals attempting to stop a rusty, discarded bike, thrown over a railing by a discarded junkie. My flea bitten mongrel just shat on my blanket made up of De Algemeen Dagblad, slightly yellow, and now my sore arse will have to be cleaned by a rotting copy of De Telegraaf.
I could beg EQ for a swish of his fat, huge Cuban; however, I prefer to gather dogends in fear of catching some opulent disease that would make my disrupted heart desire for more.
A German junkie, hanging over a bridge too far and lost in a void, just threw his last needle in my direction, so at least I can make it through the day before night falls, when rats appear, my dear friends, especially the huge albino. He stares sympathetically out of his bloodshot, red eyes, whilst two front teeth gnaw at a hole in my shoe hoping to reach my rotting, twisted, deformed, left toe nail.
My saviour, my dog, turns, stares at the albino, growls, and pisses in his face resembling acid spurting out of bygone Iraq bomb attacks. It works, the huge albino returns to his gutter filled, subterranean existence, among turds left by those above who have nothing better to do than waste their lives chasing EQ puffs of blue smoke rising gently, strangulating velvet drapes that hang majestically between them and those.
We join as one, my mutt and me. Fleas are shaken off with impunity as we prepare for our nocturnal act of survival below above and above below (There's always someone worse off). He offers the warmth of a, shaggy, furry beast, I accept, as we enter realms of surreality of what was could be.
Subterranean Homesick Blues I guess, without Dylanism's, building sites, placards containing worthless words of Wordsworth, Thomas, or me....
Good night ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ