smoking in moorgate

like red ash flickering into abyss

black, on 

east or west,

throats constricted, struggle and

then, as good as new.

red sand dampened by colourless

shiny pavement, don't

worry it'll soon be replaced and disappear,

struggle and

then, as good as new.

red rats gorging away at ripe root

lungs, soon flesh ivory muscles, and

then the vile heart,

struggle, and then as good as new.

aiming for the half empty glass but

smiles full up kept under a secret face, in

secret pockets of pipes and the brain,

i like 2.45 the

best, the sharpest red hooks couldn't scrape

into this fortress, no

struggle because i am reborn as a

thousand different people at once, in a 

single 

second.

i compel third into first because it is

who i am, in fact, even

the new moon echoes the divine 

transgression.

fingertips tracing fluorescent 

silver clouds that shelter all guilt, there's

no shame in following but even less in 

staying.

stay and

let yourself feel the rain peel down your face, and

wind embrace some kind of wonderful.

stay and

feel the city perspire, stay

and feel the ground

breathe.