Trench Coat
- Ryan O'Shea
- May 6, 2021
- 1 min read
‘Ticket for one’, he said:
no childish grin.
Just sat the cash,
in coppers,
on open skin.
Sweating, fretting,
Trench-coat stumbles
to the screen. Number
one, to see Jigsaw,
the latest gore-chore.
Trench-coat drops
across two chairs.
Two sets of smaller feet,
kicking at the air.
This man is a vile imposter. I am the real kinbote. HE is a pariah and a fool. HE eats strange goops and revels in filth and hoggery. He is the foul filter of perennial stupidity, the imposter, the sweat-dew gathering in ignorance's armpit. IA M REAL you are FAKE