Graffiti

Stunk of cigarettes lit ages ago and smoked deeply
as though the filter was an extension of the soul
and your soul awash in confusion and endless
late night Eat n' Park coffee was one more sewer
in this city flooded and capsized in the wake
of teenage sweat, the very last lights of which
pulsed and reddened, the naturally ghost-faced
ached in the extreme and begged for your touch
as dancers beat each other into bloodstains and still
called it dancing and the great, awful sounds
wrecked you for life, the ringing still righteous
and vibrating your powdering bones as out on
Baum Boulevard we suck in the chill winter
and one time maybe kissed in our big black coats
and all around fat flakes of snow scattered
like atoms before the immensity of us.

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