Square the Alley

Can the wicked thing in the alley stop moving. It’s made of heads. Blue, black, red, and yellow.
I walk by it and I’m stopped by the need for mercy from this fragile wound in my hand. About the color of hair and red.
“My dear friend.” It’s these damn robots again.
“There’s something in the alley full of heads.” I say.
“That’s been there, he’s dead.”
It’s a fullback, it’s a fucking real mean, big one; you know what I mean. Jesus! These things grow to the size of tree fronds. They’ve been issuing the Bill model after some of the old history. Fucking large nose and a head full of toupee hair.
I sneeze and it looks at me and leaves. Something in the air.
I keep walking and eventually armored cars come buzzing down the streets.
Streets have street meat.
I walk down the alley and there’s a hotdog vendor. I walk to the stand, put my two cents in, and
Hotdog flavor up through the vents, hits me in the face and falling back, this mustard smell comes to my lips and the vendor forks some fake, plastic dead skin from the hide of a beached whale up my mouth. I start gnawing at it and he pulls away. I fall on the ground and the waiter draws me away convulsing. “The street lamps have timber like music.” I say as they load me into the alley.
Here. Some sort of this land.
Plug you through with drugs. Some say sugar and some say hugs.
I’m impartial, and stuck full of hotdog smell, skin, and the drug they keep pumping into the monitor. It’s full of static and flowers.
Another robot this soon. It looks like an aging football player with a toupee. They keep having these toupees. And I want to cry; it asks me what’s this.
It’s pie in your eye.
Later in the home of this woman: She had Nilla wafers and there’s a storm outside. I’m getting cold. This woman gives me cookies and paces up and back.
Upside down later…I have a sundae cake.
This dead body in the alley keeps changing colors.
It’s hard to say how this happened inside out of the colors.
I’m afraid to say I’m a detective. I’m on the case of some William Burroughs alien fiends that keep attacking the gravitation fields within my close understanding of spare ribs and antlers. You see how this had
The colors.
The robot walks up and has another Sylvester Stallone wig and picks me up and lobs me into the movie theater.
Had the line, but couldn’t use it.
When we had the truck we used to get to the lake.
Dead beach dwellers come in and out.
I sleep at night, in a GI Joe hole.
The robots come back in Arby’s clothes. I’m thinking about rap music and hoes. I’m thinking about how this awful smell that smells like rats smells like home.
This car I had used to drive. These smells I had they don’t equate. And this car is up for grabs.
I’m thinking
These colors…
“This is a very unusual set of clothing and hair for a something like you.”
“These are my ways of expressing my lust for city and state.”
“We don’t like it.”
The robots scatter. I’m looking around at the game booths and the meat stores. I’m thinking that no matter what happens, this is not happening.
The colors of the police robots - just upbeat bots. They mean nothing. But what I’m saying to you is that there was something after me.
They had it in my head this place where I was dead.
I tried to examine the pills that I took, but I took what I was given, and I taked what I could took.
It’s always explaining hard to understand that the drugs make you aware of the reality of the drugs and therefore prove to show that there is no reality and then you wake up back at the same bed with the same fish, crackers, and this one blender that you never use.
All the time.
The music is killing my head.
Gha
Gha
God
And under a spell we ride along and these men say nice things to the sky and we rest aside the grape fields and the forgotten sea.