They think I don’t give a damn, they think I don’t feel because my face is done and my eyes are poked out and I stand there with a drink, looking at the racing form. They feel in such a NICE way, the fuckers, the pricks, the slimy smiling lemon-sucking turd-droppers, they feel, sure, the CORRECT WAY, only there isn’t any correct way, and they’ll know it . . . some night, some morning, or maybe some day on a freeway, the last rumble of glass and steel and bladder in the rose-growing sunlight. They can take their ivy and their spondees and stick them up their ass . . . if something is not
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