smoke and mirrors

The city is shakshooka; all round abouts and oven baked over expensive breakfasts mashed up with things that burn in my mouth. A belly full of hot air. I am impaling myself on barstools. Picking up the remains as I leave.
I am a charicature of myself. Running down main roads shoeless, trying to my push my feet into the bitumen, to force myself to stay in one place for a while. I am wearing this dust like armour, distancing myself from friends with profound statements about benign t shirt slogans. I'd drawn a line between us but we've run out of sand.