A Snarl in the Pocket

A Snarl in the Pocket.

Jack Mead, a sentient man. A man on whom the street opens. Collides. Fishes around in his guts like rusty hooks. Swallowed a long time ago when they were sharp.
My little uglies. He referred to them. His viscera, scraped, churning, leaking out.
Bilious. Knotted.
Bilious Knotted.
Jack Mead, a sentient man. Opens. Collides. Fishes around in the street for his rusted heart.
A man, maybe. Swallowed a long time ago.
By what?
What.
A little man. A long time ago who carried the shiny hooks with him, next to his empty heart.
Fishing around loosely like a worn out key rubbed down by too many locks.
The wrong locks, each one.
Too many to count now.
The years like glass beads sliding away.
Tilting.
Knotted. Bilious.
Bilious. Knotted.
Jake Mead, a rusted little man.
Fishing around loosely.
Too many to count.
Rotted. Tilting.
Collides.
Scraping, churned out.
Leaking his guts
like rusty hooks
His little uglies
sliding away
Inside him.