The homeless are blooming like roses
On every corner on Broadway.
I am unclean.
I bathe in their tears.
The homeless are popping like pimples.
They’re a little dog’s little unsheathed erection sticking out red.
It makes us passers-by sing.
Ho ho. It’s spring.
West Siders add fresh water
But feed the flowers with urine.
Sir, can you spare some change?
Can you look at me for a change?
Erupts when he lowers his trousers.
It’s his song.
It’s raw oozing out of a grinder.
He looks like a horrible burn from Iraq.
His wound ripples
In a hot skillet.
America doesn’t look like that.
He bends down to eat garbage.
I bend down with a bag to clean up after the dog.
I take the shit out of the bag
And stuff it back up inside the dog
And sew the anus closed,
And put the dog in a two-fifty oven to scream for three hours.
The homeless are blooming like roses.
I bathe in their screams.
I dress for the evening.
My name is Fred Seidel,
And I paid for this ad.
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