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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Philosophy · #2013012
Dead city, living river
Ghost-world, flickering in blue flames
Phantoms play the guitar sitting on neon billboards
Splatter rain
Grey sheet rain
Scarlett rain
Dripping on lamplight's through the night
The castle of propriety swells
The bowels of the arena consume and excrete
The slaughter house and the dinner chamber are both bathed in red
The dogs lick the rusty nails on the iron doors
Pieces of the city, chunks, fragments, bits
Shards in the rain falling on drenched trees and bushes ink black with wetness
Ivory mirror roads, slick-dark, crawl into mouths and connect to a bursting blue belly of a sky
Yellow lanterns for the houses of the quiet ones sleeping beneath the cots tonight
I live and ride on the backs of fireflies, leaving my drain-home
Ride through feral wonderlands, animated gardens, pink Ferris wheels and daliesque whorehouses,
The rain eats the city, claims it,becomes it and washes its long dead cadaverous face
In the morning, the world is pale ice grey and the tenements and human undergrowth keen softly
The edges are electric, the lanes are glowing spines, snaking outward
In the morning, the rain is still bleeding the drains,
the good pickup the falling shoes from the sky
And patiently wear them to work.
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