Screaming Through

Screaming through the wet black streets. The town is of no matter, I know them all, I have been here. I waited patiently for eons, waiting for asphalt and gears, for the concentration of fear and excitment to be funneled in by earth burned into slick jagged teeth, foetid and stained. All cities reek of dying sex at this hour, though the breeders] that roam these frozen channels never sense it, all they can smell is the scent of their own crotch. It's the water that concentrates their odor, fluid that leaks and oozes everywhere, dripping off the edges, creeping through the alleys and the sewers like glycerine. It concentrates the feral truth into a shadow that makes my sinus's bleed. The only way to thin it is drive, to roar in my mind and the streets, to keep hidden from the livestock with speed and sunglasses. My mind may writhe upon itself, my eyes may snarl at you but never will you see it. So few can. Only the ones that know how to look, only the ones I show it to. Precious is the child that can recognize the machination of his own end, but I am not a killer.