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I stand alone in the dark Fulton Street subway station, Breathing in the urine-scented air, Breathing out clouds of steam, A subway train rushes along, Not stopping, Biting at my eardrums, With the painful percussion, Of thousands of people, Silently screaming, I don’t want to see,      I don’t want to see,           I don’t want to see, The air fanned by each subway car, Rushes against me, Pushes the ozone and the smell of burnt brake linings, Into my nostrils, Along with the air, ****** through the iron gratings, Along miles of Brooklyn sidewalks, Carrying the odor of a prostitute’s festering sores, And the cries of a hungry, fatherless child in ***** diapers, And the hoarse moaning of a city councilman mentoring a young intern, And the cheap perfume of a fourteen year-old runaway, Turning $20 tricks in an alley, Smelling of stale Chinese food and wet dogs, And . . . I don’t want to see,      I don’t want to see,           I don’t want to see, . . . the smell of spoiled cabbage soup, And the rancid remains of a hotdog buried in sauerkraut, And putrid lilies lying in a gutter, All assaulting me, forcing me backwards, Until my back presses against, The grimy once-white tiles, That coldly burn their graffiti on my spine: God is dead, Bake a **** Whitey ***** **** the ******* I don’t want to see,      I don’t want to see,           I don’t want to see, The train finally passes, Its red eyes receding into the dank, Dark tunnel beyond the platform, The screeches and screams slowly die out, Their echoes ******* behind them, The smell, Of my, Warm *****
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Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
The Subway
I stand alone in the dark Fulton Street subway station, Breathing in the urine-scented air, Breathing out clouds of steam, A subway train rushes along, Not stopping, Biting at my eardrums, With the painful percussion, Of thousands of people, Silently screaming, I don’t want to see,      I don’t want to see,           I don’t want to see, The air fanned by each subway car, Rushes against me, Pushes the ozone and the smell of burnt brake linings, Into my nostrils, Along with the air, ****** through the iron gratings, Along miles of Brooklyn sidewalks, Carrying the odor of a prostitute’s festering sores, And the cries of a hungry, fatherless child in ***** diapers, And the hoarse moaning of a city councilman mentoring a young intern, And the cheap perfume of a fourteen year-old runaway, Turning $20 tricks in an alley, Smelling of stale Chinese food and wet dogs, And . . . I don’t want to see,      I don’t want to see,           I don’t want to see, . . . the smell of spoiled cabbage soup, And the rancid remains of a hotdog buried in sauerkraut, And putrid lilies lying in a gutter, All assaulting me, forcing me backwards, Until my back presses against, The grimy once-white tiles, That coldly burn their graffiti on my spine: God is dead, Bake a **** Whitey ***** **** the ******* I don’t want to see,      I don’t want to see,           I don’t want to see, The train finally passes, Its red eyes receding into the dank, Dark tunnel beyond the platform, The screeches and screams slowly die out, Their echoes ******* behind them, The smell, Of my, Warm *****
From: Of Pain and Ecstasy: Collected Poems You can hear all six of my Unsung Heroes poems read by me in my podcasts at https://open.spotify.com/show/1zgnkuAIVJaQ0Gb6pOfQOH. (plus much more of my fiction, non-fiction and poetry in English and Spanish)
#dark#poetry#existentialism#angst#cities#freeverse
VictorDLopez
Written by
VictorDLopez
59/M/New York
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 10:54 PM UTC
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