[ex] plosives

There he was on the street looking like some skeletal
mangy dog with his gavel mustache his hunger
eyes his topographical squeamishness & canyons
in wrinkles on the face

He kicked shoes into the hot sun breeze of the morning
whooping clapping with his dirty fingers on the
train last on the line honking as the Beatles
played on an iPod with only three minutes left
to go

Police officer chewing bagel on the day off stream of strangers
sitting next to smells-like-fish coated dingy drawer
half-boat wrinkled old mess like a trash can alley
cat in mewing in the dungeons of vapid new moons
he capped the tip of his cane with only two minutes left
to go

Stravinsky is the sound of utter implosion madness war Thermidore
councils revolution Directors guillotine reactionary culled
from happy dreaming stakes where the numb shall grow
their gardens grinning truth with one damn minute left
to go

Spittle squirming trickling tumbling into his body lap
hot warm gooey and the rats nibble on corpses with ash
red black every car evaporated screams turning flesh to
black stumps shadows watching unmaking clouds pouring
gas flash boom bang mushroom and the half-muted
stumbling nearly-dead not-yet-eviscerated moaning
in the god-forsaken grey ash and there is nowhere left
to go