Turns out the penthouse suite
doesn’t suit me, too posh and
roomy for my delicate tastes.
Give me life’s honest feeling;
the cold concrete and steel of
burning basements; the creak
of a cratered rooftop. Luxury
reeks like a toxic tonic, a sick
and sour salve to soothe self-
inflicted wounds (ingredients
include juice of exploitation)
and the rash that simmers on
the fat man’s skin like soup.
— SPENCER KEENE
