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When, in an uneasy, sterile relationship with Who

Gangsters impatiently rub thighs against each other

Bump! Suddenly the fifty-cents dropped, and continued to drop

My store, burning in the wilderness, source of hope, of pity

Shit rattled round the bottom of his car, nothing could be done

Can anyone respect bridges, estuaries, brothel hallways anymore

They step up against my face, fling ash on my dvd collection

Hear this moment with a distanced precision

My store, a labyrinth, its purpose forgotten

Hunger her drug, her need, a halo in her bathroom