Trails of wet coal

on concrete slopes

beneath the bridge

invite my body to go limp

and tumble down

entropic signatures

of doubtless decline.

Bent cigarettes in ditches

like the nested bodies

of beautiful girls

where I am going to align

with the great uncaring dispersal.

This is not a cry for help,

it's just a cry.

This is not a prayer,

just an exhalation

of poison air.

Beneath the chrome carriages

my disintegration will be

untouchable peace.

Beneath the printed papers

in flight from unending flatulence

the street is the soul

of a sealed world

kept clamped in a mindless rift

and the puppets can keep the gift.