Justification

He was a lonely son of a bitch. The kind people raised their fingers in the sign of the twelfth letter to their foreheads laughing as they passed by. And passed by they did as every breath he exhaled carried within the death knell of vinegary regret that wilted any chance to ever be loved. His stench proceeded him in all his paths stinking up the place long before and after his reeking funk of his malodorous presence entered or retreated. The fear of humiliation so inbred that it crept beside him whipping aside all comers with a wicked arched tail raised to spew the scent of delirious schizopsychopathy rearing up twelve forked tongues in split second response to any overtures that could be construed as rejection. A cyclops of rueful remorse weaponized into fumbling whips of inept tentacles lashing slashing clawing in desperate clinging bloody rips and tears.

His face once passably pleasant now a landslide of silver streaked sprouting dangling jowls that bobbled and sagged matched to his rear by dimpled expanding ass cheeks that appeared pleasing only when stretched taut within precious moments at the greased rimmed cup black plastic trash bags over discarded plywood secured with duct tape of the local glory hole to be pumped and prodded deep brown gritty lipstick smeared semen striped puckered out. Where he'd yell out with a gravely guttural hoarse scream like a hyena shot with a tranquilizer gun waiting to die yet pulled into a deep sleep only to wake up in a crowded pen with so many other hyenas no longer special wild free. A substantial scream hands pumping his pesky piddly prick simultaneously in substitute for how he felt a lifetime of love might feel like squeezed into a black hole kind of ecstasy wouldacoulda have been. Mere minutes of fun flimsy fleeting satiation were now all that was left to justify his miserable wasted existence.

And then he'd wobbled home alone flopping his torn ass onto discolored splatter worn cushions that were also his bed exhaling. Wilted cactus in pots lining his dank molded peeling window sills. Black murderous mold creeping across the drooping scarred tiles of his sinking ceiling where his eyes were drawn to stare into the abyss of his inner space to take thoughts away from his stinging tail and the scent of sweet violation. The scent of all the others still lodged deep inside come out in squeaking slender melodious farts as he felt himself give into to the deep pressing spent tire that rose from his backside to his wrinkled eyelids. A cup reading #1 Nothing once filled with his own vile mixture of whiskey stale coffee and spittle brown becoming black around the crusty edges sat on the littered mess of papers and poems that was also his mind that spills and runs knocked over by a jerk in rare REM sleep in remembrance of an especially sharp and piercing precise entry the only one to hit that exact spot to give him momentary euphoria using him to rapture and rise up toward the heavens. A slight slumber smile raised the corners of his crusty drooling lips. Justification.