Single years roll down my face, I send smoke signals to teenagers Lost in the sound of their personal midnight, Changing their names to ‘lost’ and ‘gained’ and remain unquantifiable in the loose streets of halogen New York, or the loose streets of halogen anywhere,
Some places you don’t imagine, only experience, Some places you don’t visit but get sent, Some places demand sacrifice of years you don’t have, Some places are just prayers and graffiti,
And here, here The railway bridge adorned, with tags and padlocks and ****** fluids with different stories, I see all the streets and city embodied, She has a face like blunt force trauma, Her legs are seductive and her hands are covered in blood, Her lover’s smile is an open wound.
In these places there is a fire in every tower, In these places there is something sharp in every pocket, In these places there is a sad drawing in your child’s notebook, In these places there is always a ticking growing louder.
A foetus in handcuffs beneath a middle aged man hanging from a traffic light; Incidents unrelated, Become dead words in piles of boxes, That don’t realise they tell us how this city or satellite town is gathering the dirt for its own burial mound.