• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 10
Image by


There is plenty to cry about.
Trees leaving,
Dropping their pale petals on to trimmed grass lawns,
Where women are canoodling,
Entwining their necks, pecking on breadcrumbs and dropping tears into a vial.
'Something hurts', they call these bottles, 
And what a sensation,
What a nagging, slithering, biting sensation,
What a clawing, gaping, crabby little pit it makes in your stomach, you must try it.
You must try hurting.
You must buy it.
Vial after vial is cried in and bottled out to the general crowd, the ones that have
Nowhere to leave to
Not much to cry about, you know, the city life,
You know what it's about.
They sit on their manicured grass, shaved like a good school child,
And they quake with a tremendous hurt, call it woman-pain, call it crowing, harrowing pain,
It is such a delight.
To hurt and to cry.
And with every teardrop that leaves the body,
An old sliver of self slides down with it, dribbles to the ground.
Tear after tear chips away, it is a painful parting.
The city people now, they walk around crying, they say
'I am leaving'