It

It was the mad ranting of unstable individuals scribbled on shit smeared and tile chipped walls of the subway station.  It was present as balding Russians, hopped up on pills and whiskey stumble by; reeking of alcohol, reminiscent to the odor of fecal matter in the air.  Genderless and strapped for sex on a swing, it begged for the lashes of a leather whip flung from the hands of an available lover.  Sound spiking shrills from crowded dive bars was it’s lullaby, Tuesday through Thursday. 

Carnal and massive was it’s appetite for raw onions.  It loved the way exhibitionist

would wear the hot onion rings on hard penises like wedding bands, or clung to erect nipples of Native belly dancers during the spring.  It was fire dances an lion tamers, untamed by the rigors of 9-5 living, living off the perspiration of perpetual failure, attempting to rise from guttural abuses.  It admired the feel of red satan scarves wrapped around it’s neck as oxygen became a premium, and the crowd watched un-amazed and uninspired.  

It admonished at it’s left arm, near the wrist, which held the cigarette scar it received as a toddler.  Being free always includes a price.  Gratitude was a luxury and falsehood; jagged and rough unlike that of the rim of a shot glass.  Scorned in the general public it learned to scowl instead of smile, cry instead of laugh, and love was a foreign city light years away from present location.  Silence became it’s best enemy providing solace, depression and subtle plans of grand endings.