The Serfs, the Graft, the Man

I'm not the biggest fan of work and generally try to avoid it at all costs but somehow was roped into 2 shifts in one day with 8 hours off in between, 2 of which i spent at the bar and watching bad televsion thinking about how tired i would be the next day, thinking about red wine and all it's glory, thinking about how the rich cunts never ponder all the work that goes on so they can sit around eating filet mignon and scheme on how to take more money from the poor, see at the Big World Bank machine it was the meeting of the Priveleged and we the serfs were told to stay out of sight because nothing bothers the wealthy more than the unwashed masses muddling around, chewing food with our mouth open, scratching our asses, picking our noses, and basically acting like the neaderthals they think we are, the wealthy don't want to think about all the sweat that went into their little soiree, they want to eat-drink-be merry and laugh about stealing money...

so i stayed out of sight reading books and watching thuderstorms and when the time came i did my thing and broke a nice sweat and changed clothes and walked into the wet city night air and had a smoke and felt the beautiful ache of the graft in my body, the beautiful fog of sleep in my mind, the feeling of exhaustion that frees you from really giving a fuck and i went to the bar and watched some pugilists on the telly and thought of Hemingway and bull fights and whiskey and blood...

and i knew the rich cunts didn't have a clue, knew they were playing at being men, knew they've never been in a bar fight or stumbled down the street with nowhere to go, i knew i could take em but mostly i knew they couldn't break me no matter how hard they tried cuz they didn't get the questions and didn't know the answers, they may have the dollars and cents but paper burns and what burns in this chest is a bit more intangible, is a bit more Geno or Dexy or french fried or sunburned, they've never taken the searing punch that leaves you gasping for air and wondering if you'll ever breathe again but when the breath comes back you know you've gained some knowledge of this ting called living that you ain't gonna find behind the mahogony desk.

So i tipped my bottle and thought of Ernest in the Keys, in Cuba, in Spain, grinned a bit in the beautiful neon, grinned a bit for believing the word, the paint, the dirt and the dust, grinned a bit at reading to much, grinned at my daydreams and watched the stars on my way home.