And the world spins.

Spins grease and shit, throws out
May flowers, Alex drinks.

Alex dreams of simpler times.
How simpler things were once,
not when I was a pimp, not when
I drove a lorry, but back in
simple decades, mama reading to
me bedtime stories, and summer camp
on the Black Sea, and New Years tree
and we’d ignore the ones shit
out of luck, but even they, they’d
stick tongues down each others throats
and fuck through woolen prisoner
uniforms right in the Gulag, in the permafrost,
we didn’t have much then but we had
love, some semblance of it, now
money is the game, all there is to it.

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