Old papers flap down empty streets. It is an ugly season. Day slouches in, in shameless anonymity Devoid of great chained excuses of being A voided has been of god, notion and country. Unfocused without, we hunt worms within To bait further cold excretion of reason, rationale. Refuse refusing our naked nothing.
Strip steal by night.
Wall Street Pushing through the night Eastward to the moon Not yet risen, False dusk of reason dons Its mantis mating respectability Sans honor, self or soul. And enlightens genes for green, Without the warranty. I thought on her leaving and smelled the musk Of grasshoppers held captive In a mason jar. There lies a sorrow beneath this yellow Odor which rises on two legs and mocks What little man remains behind. Shallow Selfish greed of love and lover's talk Of trust in self made shadows mere shadow Of hallowed spell disguised by holy frock.