Motherless Child

Last night, after the crickets stopped chirping, I set my face alight. The agony was searing. It made me hard. My screams woke the neighbors. They turned on the big flood lights, which confused a bird. Thinking that it was dawn the little feathered fuck started to sing. Sometimes I sit alone and I can hear Richie Havens singing about being a motherless child.



  1. It’s a sad day in literary history. JG Ballard died. Aged 78.


  2. Yeah. When I heard I felt like shit


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