Twenty toes stink of youthful indifference,
the shit that paves the beer gardens
where the lads fight the dreams
of other would-be artists;
luring the sweetness
out of bottles
tonight like every
other, left with the bitter
dripping along a dark alley way,
thick with brick, wrapped in canvas.
They paint a fresco of boyish dreams by
dabbling their shoelaces in urine colours,
and then proceed to hang their portraits on
Orion’s belt, hoping that tomorrow’s horoscope will
have their procrastination synonymous with something else.