The slouch man waits,
smoke fat and crackle heavy,
verged electric, always jangling.
He appears anywhere
waddle belly into bursting,
forcing fight in what his gut spills.
A man for the ages,
roiling beneath his sweat crust shell,
always scratching that part,
boil prober, itch tender,
thinking he’s the wounded one.
Some seek a hold,
you maybe wanna know what makes him.
Hell, he looks just like us, there’s one
on every corner, bubbled with a lust for
clack of hooves and hose
and teeth-rattled asphalt.
He just shows up.
He doesn’t think too hard.
He spits and yells and
punches and kills.
Simple red points,
no need for learning more.