by kevinbarrettkane
pigeons pick up small stones
thrown by the festive gatherers—
silent and aching, i sit to watch
their gullets explode over
the gum-stained cobbles
as pickpockets slip into
narrow canals on stolen bicycles
they ride furiously through the
wasted festering feces
against a sleet of cigarette butts
on the soles of Saint Peter—
"Whither goest Thou, Master?"
god’s man, watching over
this swollen intersection—
his
broken
surveillance
system
someone rigged it back in the fifties,
he hasn’t intervened since.
every beautiful girl in the world
sits at this intersection and consumes
her black heart with smoke
apocalypse, esophagus now
good riddance Alles lief wie am Schnürchen.
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