Blisters

Cut out on my feet –
cigarette burn rounds–
from city streets
that used to greet me
with imitation fireflies
and flights of fancy –
dizzying and glorious.
Now cracking and porous
my heels no longer
enough to support
–me –

Lo, lost, in this city
I knew –
So well –
It’s a hell

from the second you left
familiar became terror
and all I could want
is to escape –
walk away searing
in the heat –
I burn my feet
on the streets
that used to love me.

Post-Possible

I read a street sign.
it was written in German
and I’m not in Germany,
but Gott ist tot
so nothing makes sense.

The corpse’s awful stench.

I’m afraid,
we killed Him apparently
and without a she
there was no baby.
It’s up to us now
to find the way
even though
the street signs are German.

City nights, guiding lights, false prophets

I saw god in a stranger,
pouring petrol.
I heard god in mouths
in the many churches
lining the street
where the hookers stand,
angels of the night
illuminated in headlights.
I lost my voice
shouting at the universe
from the car window
at fast-lane speed,
to get closer to light
we ride our breath away
and stick hands
into icy air
to break the numb.
I thought I saw a sign
of insight
but the sight to see
was an adult store neon.

Mining inspiration on city streets.

Sucking, ring-mouthed, on exhaust-pipes of inspiration
exhausted I pick-axe my way through soot and darkness
that chokes me up and sits in subconscious corners
cobwebbed clinging on my waking walking
through streets and observations of people
and things to find anything worthy of ink and page.
No rough diamonds or polishing those rough rides
on nights when all it took was a drink and to be taken home
before the morning light could cast judgement on me.
There’s no ore in the veins of jazz and cigarettes,
smokey rooms clinging to skin and sucking you
into their smells and ear-ringing. Wringing your ringless fingers.
Its romanticism Is better left for films
No inspiration to be had sucking on pipes and dreams
and stale cigarette smells
and running from morning light
and forgetting it all
In an afternoon wake-up beside bedside aspirin
and pushed away under the sheets
and washed with your jeans that are worn on the knees
and wear crumpled bar receipts mocking from empty pockets.
Yet here they are, those nights, those receipts,
All laid out, laid again,
In little lines and sighs of charcoal-dark smudges of ink
inspiration on your hands and pages.