The Apple shop is white and sterile.
Like hell for someone who actually likes life
and would rather not break their knees with prayer.
A man with a perfectly round face tells me it's terminal.
I hope he means his face. He doesn't. His veins
must look like a smashed up Mac scattered
on the side of the road next to a McDonald's.
I wouldn't even do them the favour of writing
another word about them other than: cunts.
Like a weight around my ankles
I hurl myself into a river
by the iPod plugged into my ears.
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