the pedestrian molestor off his festering tits
shares his dirty secrets with his mechanical clientele
leering posthumously with a sinister curvature
our new caretaker struggles to fight his feast, his famine
we flee from the debris like thanksgiving turkeys
with optimistic prospects of saviour from slaughter
but capture is imminent no matter what dialogue
is relayed between those whose convictions never waver

whore squanderer, playground wanderer
randomly stalking his prey like an amateur
i'll always be a nusiance
to lacklustre zombies roaming around with egg on their faces
my autobiography paced decidedly slow
ends anticlimactically, nobody anchored by ghosts.