Wanting to register in the road & the characteristics of the real

"The rich don't have to kill to eat, they 'employ' people, as they call it."
							- Celine

The circular flakes, 
Unable to register.

So I begat toleration,
then. That girl named Toleration
and her fake brushes. 
Whose body, once built,
yielded a pound of sweats. drained.

I made a special trip to hear her piss.
(the strip club bathroom was wired with a microphone.)

Out in the real world. uneven & dusty. 
two boys walk down the road.
They bend and grimace in the heat. Because its wartime
they're my boys, somehow. Whoa!
 
"I've heard little bags contain teeth and words
also
secret forms of prostitution."
White teeth rattle in my ironic mouth.
I tell them the girl had an unusual
booze style, hard-edged but elegant. Always
having a reservoir of brutality:
more in the tank. 

Nodding, in the breath of gun.
My wide angle lens catches their hysteria,
my boys screaming, falling

In the deep with guns being traded...
In the tumult of sunshine & growth... In the organ
that sheds thoughts...  fiction. Guns
being traded?

Secrecy presents with a form of discipline, 
an illness of the spine. in which my nerves carry odd
even uncanny pains.

camille roy