Decker's Habidashery

This time is wasted,
Irrelevant and seamless.
I stand in front of a building and the windows are dusted,
Fine lines of grime and filth emphasise the fine lines and grains of the building.
As I enter an old man approaches and asks me what my business here is.
I reply ‘I’m here on an errand, I need to speak to a Luke Sharp.’
‘Not fucking funny you sonofabitch,’ he says to me, slimy spit dripping from his this purple gums.
He assumes I’m just another luckless fuck here to find a way out.
‘Decker’s Habidashery,’ is the unlikely title of this hovel.

‘I’m here on important business, I don’t know the name of the guy but I’d know him if I saw him,’ I casually say, as if to presume this sordid old groat might be of use. He gives me a look up and down, my clearly unlaundered garments causing his eyes to twitch and look again. He eyes me like I’m the guy that fucked his granddaughter. This causes me some distress so I move past him. He makes a play for my wrist but is too slow. He drops his broom and limps, following me as I wander a poorly lit, awful smelling lane of dusty filing cabinets and stacked, grey desks.
‘You can’t go in there, those stupid fucks on packing leaving the door open, you shouldn’t be in here you know that,’ he croaks behind me. His voice is like the oil that collects beneath a poorly maintained engine. Tarry and sticky, it cloys in my ears and does nothing to change the fact that I am not concerned about my rights or privileges within this shitty fucking backwards outhouse.
That fuck is going to suffer. I hope he works with metal, I’d settle for wood, if I can get my hands on a solid object before I reach him everything will be acceptable. There’s a metal ruler, that’ll do, best to keep on to it in case he’s around the next corner.

What a world,
Where the lives of others are so linked it makes your detachment even worse when you realise it.
Who has time to stop and talk to this irrelevant breed of devouring, defecating blood packs.
Why would you care enough to call some ‘friend’ and others ‘enemy.’
How do you find time to go through the ball-ache process of splitting the fuckers into two separate, distinct categories. Distinct. Distinct from what?
‘Oh well this guy is usually less of a prick than that other guy but the other guy buys me drinks all the time so I can’t really stop talking to him just so I can talk to the other guy,’ and so it goes until the whole world is unwittingly and unknowingly competing for your attention, your attention, attention that if it weren’t for some mere occasional circumstance would be completely unnoticed.
We all think the battle for supremacy in our hearts is something worth people taking part in. Bullshit.

I turned a corner and found the fucker. He was stood in front of a large machine. It was essentially a large Perspex box, lined with steel and with an enormous, pounding, loud base. Jets of milky fluid shot all over the Perspex windows and dripped slowly back down. The whirring of whatever worked inside whirred and whirred away, and the guy looks up at me.
The blood in my mouth tasted so fucking fresh, so raw, iron and silk, and I brought my trembling, sweating hand down into his gaping face.

That this gave me a hard-on was inexplicable. Ideas flowed. I wanted to write. So I did.