Chapped Sticks

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.

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