The street has an illness,
Its phlegm-filled spittle on my shoes,
Its hot, choleric breath filling my lungs.
I am weary of its sickness.
Every eye is bound to this slowly unfolding Hell.
Close them, and you pay double the price.
Scars on the sidewalk
Move their filmy lips
And talk to the scars behind your eyes.
The droll stories they tell
Rattle your brain like a cage.
Tongue moving beyond your control,
Asking, always asking,
"Can't I be removed?
Can't I escape?"
Shapes dissolve into worries,
Your heart no longer floating
On saintly logic, but sinking
In the vomitus of that same saint.
All one can do is plough forward,
Dragging ones heavy heart, suffocating
Ones hysteric brain, till both depart
Of their own accord.
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