**** SCHIZ STREET **** (A poem)
1.
This morning, he visits the streets
And can’t tear his thoughts from wonder
That men will swarm over a slab of sheaves
Exchanging saliva coated complaints
Of bad governance and UEFA triumphs
2.
This morning his eyes are harassed
By boobs bigger than bursting bras
Cleaving and clinging to eyes even when closed
Muddled minds moving, meandering and maneuvering
Through tempting tattoos on torturous thighs
3.
This morning, his ears strain to hear
The loud music from little headphones
Making youngsters convulse in maniacal puppetry
And of honks that hit the head with haunting hurts
From the highways and motorless corners
4.
So, this evening, he ponders in confusion
The itch that ails this ill illusion
He fared better he thought and blessed his luck
And from his dusty locks, he picked some lice for dinner
Savouring his own blood, he makes his bed in the refuse
dump.
