We cast our shouts into the streets
and found ourselves spilling glances
to the ground, where the run-down
women sleep (drifting nearer to their
bloated end). We balance up along,
humming dead-beat tunes gone
wrong, under street lamps wrought
with webs and dust, but this will
never be enough so—

We cast our shouts into the streets
and peruse the moods of faces gray.
There must be freedom for the working
slave! Just strangle the veins that collapsed
and stayed! because the room for talk
holds no vacancy, and the artifacts of
thought now sell as novelties, but you
don't seem to notice so—

We cast our shouts into the streets
and mix (transfixed upon the air) our
laughter crossed with ashen wear: ignoring
all the city-cell-blocks found blinking
in dry sinking volts. Don’t let the sky
drop its weight on you! Watch out for all
the grabbing gutters near—no one can know
when hooks begin—but we won’t
remember then.