A rusty squeak clears the din
Of natal combustion.
The alley’s hiding skinned knees
Mysteries of access,
Lost on the webs of para-transit.
Under that mountain is a sea of oil
We drink it and cry and smoke,
Concrete tear ducts singed
By this vitriol lode.
Too potholed concrete
Pushin up sodden trash,
Lacerated poppies from the street
Drained of a sticky grey pulp
That has mired for a century.
Beton facades reach for the sky
Scared with broken out glass windows
That look like my eye after each hit
While pale lashes ripen,
The vents under houses bend,
A cat and spider’s paradise.
Issuing from my face
After I ate this fetid cake,
Coke stains and tunnels of hollow sounds
Echoing the grunts of a city
Where it doesn’t rain
Except soot and concrete tears
And this distant depression I have right now.
The space a head can create
Wobbling on its axis
Ringing like dead bells on the St. Laurent,
Like the Ganges, the LA River, the 405
Veins of smog and plastic, muted lives
Glass tinted to the reflections—
Glinting off towers of glass and steel
This last sunset of isolation in commerce.
– Michaël Veremans