Slim's inferno

Slim's inferno hides in a 40.
He can see it grinning at him
out of the corner of his brain stem.

The fire makes him blush
and his eyse slide open slick. Flicks
his butt's specs

on his soiled shirt. The aroma of stink
frames his palor
and his articulations remain ridiculous
muddy incoherent puddles
splatter & drip
drool & spit
you're in a Pitt
63

New + York = Newk