Brandy Station apts. . . . . .

If you asked the public, “where Betelgeuse would live”, most would reflexively say “a trailer-park court” which is a good answer, but you can fit-in more chaos and trashiness in a south St. Louis apartment-complex. Think of it, that debris-strewn parking-lot painted with fresh yellow lines, and oodles of instant auto-mart credit with spanking-new trucks, but “barely a place to live” as the cowboys live in splendour, or nothing– with equal ease. To each his own, a man his personal business– sitting around a lawn-table, playin’ poker before a bucking steer explodes out of the chute and sends ’em skittish, the ole’ one-paycheck-from-oblivion truck-a-thon of dribbling whiskey solutions– hollerin’, yellin’, prayin’, singin’, and fightin’. Red-faced heart failure and dollops of tasty pork-grease burning the wick. . . . .

Gap-toothed juvenile delinquents skip-around in circles as bottle rockets streak through the air and pop like a residential war-zone, the tomahawk whirligig of melted popsicles and sweltering summer nights as it’s about nodding on the patio and offered “a cold one”. Life is just “a pay-stub, away” from  the fine entitlement of being “an American, always-right”, always gratified, as sure as a sloop-backed customer flattered with exactly, “what they want to hear”. . . . . as it’s the bumptious hay-ride of “impulsive fortune” as a poor-man’s pockets is stuffed with gold, instead of straw-chaff and good for credit.

And the bonds, that break– and how they’ll get you “every time” Retirement is just a pile of rags, oil-slicks, rat-nested bed-springs, and slicks of dribbling shit– stinking human meat with hard-lines, sunken cheeks, and corn-cobbed, missing teeth like a fly-blown carcass of pay-to-play arrangements, your hands clasped together in the Lord’s Prayer for once-fresh pastures and highway sunsets as America is #1 with a giant foam finger pointed, heavenward in the stands of stock-car racing and country music stardom.

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Brandy Station apts. . . . . .

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