p.197

we belong to the starving places,
the broken places,
the screaming, shattered, hallucinated
alleys of blood and smoke and demons
of shuddering righteousness.
floating lovers running high and poison-
drunk into doorways and neonic
windows crying out for absinthe
and holy, holy benzedrine
in glazed teacups of library cafes
demonic siren-songs,
shrieking car alarms in afternoon
machineries,
when all the righteous are sleeping
and the chosen came out to scream
in front of shutters closed down to the
damned.

vibrations from the drilling
drilling drilling
into the pavements of greying rain-
tears and rainbowed gasoline
spilled carelessly from engines
releasing rotten and evil from the
depths of this earth.
those righteous-shutters blows half open
in the madness of waxing moon-winds.

beautiful, beautiful darkness,
beautiful, beautiful damnation,
golden deception,
golden lucifer,
golden hell,
golden lights straying off pathways of
dark-deep forests,
golden souls in eager rivers of underworlds,
golden addiction,
golden smiles of torture,
golden wheels of death and birth
and dying, dying, dying for the darkness,
into the indigo road— drains of night,
reflecting golden constellations & golden
lamp-posts
and the golden windows of empire state
and the L-train.

scream, scream, scream into your indigo
death.
fearful, ground-sleeping, 6ft. forgotten,
fires below, regret above, redemption
and tears from the righteous
with their closed windows far
above the bodies now.

those starving places belong to us.

the dumpster fainted concussions,
the vomited acids of last night’s
drunken affairs in amber side-streets,
the hollow-eyed babies born cut of
terror and war
and atomic demises of love and
perforated money,
those flawlessly created youths with
their drugged immortality
shining broken-skinned from out
of their eyes and mouths
those nothing-brained men of poetry
and heavenly visions,
those wanton dreamers of scotch
rose and pure ethanol gulped
from glassware,
burning throats and minds and
talent and running genius into drains
with the purple blood of the dying.
the starving places belong
to the starving,
and the starving belong to their
indigo deaths.

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