Saturday, February 4, 2017

Weeknight in Hell’s Kitchen

Down the dark avenues
where footsteps fall off of crowded curbs
to scuttle past the slow flesh night life,
the neon punctuates
roiling twighlight.

The pastel dusk
is our emperor,
ordering us to sweet sin
that tastes better
with the ghosts of old crimes.

Let us lapse
into madness
drunk on laughter
with old friends.
Let this all
fall out of favor
so these streets
will be our secret

No comments:

Post a Comment