a man fires
rotting rubber bullets
through implicit yellow
“i’ll kill you” he shoots
“i’m gunna’ fuckin’ kill you”
the row of brown
brick chimneys he’s slinging at
sag inward under these
cigarette lit threats—
their seemingly modern genuflect
to the cannon of his word
and the wisdom about his nature
satisfied at this respect
smiling a sunken crick
the man sings once more:
“i’m goin’ to the horse track”
his slouch of pillared salt (a body)
disagrees and empties in collapse
to the green glinting shadowed
blades of grass
then the cities fiery
lights tuck round
him like a duvet
while his jaundice
filled life files obvious
from between his legs.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment