A siren, a flash, then a
Rooftop loses it’s darkness
In a small glimmer of a somberness.
Different heights,
Majestic lights,
On a warm winter nights.
The early evening wind
Blows gently, unlike when
The brazen howl cuts my face
Like a dull razor.
The blood from my
Facial wounds burn like small fires,
But do not taste like the
Wounds from my soul,
Which make my eyes look mean
And I wonder if the heavens can contain
All of my immoral thoughts on long afternoons
When I am desperate,
And I dull my demons with a combination of
Ironic wit and
Sullen pints of cheap ale.
I glimpsed at the colorful stars,
As the ancient jets fly by,
And pollute the defenseless
Air with manufactured toxins
And rude passengers from Queens.
I wonder who really likes
The overrated photographer, and his
Overpriced images
Which look nice at first sight.
His art is nothing more than
Shallow objects of desire.
The realization arises that
Blind men in pajamas have better
Vision that most commercial artists these days.
Ask the out of work
Sugar factory workers.
They’ll tell you what’s up.
No comments:
Post a Comment