by Christopher Clark
Draining fat from a steak, think
Of glamour, gold and mocha. Syllables
Fall as blood. I watched them gush from lips.
Old stones and gloomy Sunday, the street’s
Finally exploding. Her veins, they’re frying,
All fatty smoke and barges, a way for chasing tail.
Hollow, strung-out and stale, roll them sleeves up, son.
Among kettles and the cannons, loop back through
Swaying faces bold with rage, sick of lonely hope to find her.