They Cut Scars

The black over cloud turns the day and last Friday night whilst driven with cabin fever decided to walk the city ragged, I catch sight of this change and from under my hat caught similar glimpses of them. The woman who shushes in the advert for Shutter Island is our reference point and what seemed to me as obvious no one else copped, the Dubliner in the hotdog van said hello, normal enough but with a heavy black eye and thick breath, he smiled to hear another native accent but his teeth were Nosferatu, the taxi driver who stared for a good five minutes as I walked on was the same, maybe even a little decomposed standing at his ranked Skoda he beckoned me over I knew better- and all those girls in small skirts had red wine lips in their laughter all looked dead, all looked like red raw rage in a movie clip, an American movie clip. They just kept coming, slurring slouch and tripping falling humming the dead in town song, needing a feeding.
A door on the left was open and I went downstairs, only men clean and well and a chair in the red corner was there for me, out of harm, out of the way of knives out, teeth out and the run in possible with permanent scars.

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