I am not familiar with the angry man.
He reminds me of a hundred old album covers.
His trenchcoat stirs up a circus of perfumes.
The children laughing in the park match this
Walking about in the garden with authority.
I hate it as much as those shorts old men wear
and people who tell me not to say what I please
about the country in which I live. They are the ones
who bounded keen up the steps of the policestation
on the school tour.
The cities are too noisy for cellphones. The old man
in the shorts I hate is down an alley shouting at his
Everything about him is veteran, even the cold eyes
which meet mine briefly.
The schollers here in the night commit many murthers against their privat adversaries, and too often executed upon the stranger and innocent, and all with gun-shot or else stilletoes:
The Judge said from under his stupid wig that he robbed the bank because he is an evil man; and that he was a bastard – his lusty parents having no respect for property inheritance. Investment security is what they really mean, which leans many to suspect the body is common property; but then they say that nothing in life is free.
Deconstructed and rearranged to suit the current argument. The well thumbed manual on the techniques of caressing [ideal medicine for the amateur] also pointed out that The System is in the minds of your fellow man. And unless you are prepared to crush the skulls of countless millions, then you must learn to fare the best you can. That’s truth, well, as close as you can get in this world of image and similitude.