Sunday, April 08, 2007


Come with me to The Slum, the land of the crumb, cheap rum, the stink of booze in worn out shoes, ragged, rumpled clothes, a face where pain and misery shows, oozing scabs, new and old scars from wars in last chance bars, hacking coughs where bloody spittle runs off down-turned lips, dreams of ships that sail but don't come in, deals that fail before they begin.

Beggars. stalkers, endless talkers to voices only they can hear. The unwashed on the brink of death, strangled by their failing breath, rotting gums where teeth once grew. Muscle turned to flab and men who haven't worked since God knows when.

The slum bums. Who are they? Where did they come from? Here and there. Everywhere. The big success in the swivel chair. The gambler never dealt an ace. The priest who fell out of grace. The young and old controlled by cheap wine and booze, losers until they die alone on a lonely street and rats dine on the fresh dead meat.

The good, the bad,. the never had, the mad whose brain has gone astray and so have they, fading more day by day, no future to look forward to, only fleeting memory, a vacation by the sea, a love to kiss, a friend to miss, bliss when the sky was blue and a golden hue crowned the end of day.

This was as million yesterdays ago. They now vaguely recall all before alcohol took it all away. When they could smell a fresh grown rose, wiggle their toes in the sand as the sun began to warm the day. when all their cares could melt away as they watched their children play, when a pizza pie or a ham on rye, a friendly hello and a cheerful goodbye were worth more than a million bucks could buy.

The Slum. The Land of Booze. If that you choose, you lose.


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