Synaesthesia Magazine Americana - Page 6

there is the subterranean

movement of horns,

subway noise following

beats, fat and languid,

heads shaven, dancing

in the lazy headlights

passing weary through

the arms of night.

a man wearing shorts

walks from the slaughter-

house dragging a jawbone

worn out shoes slipping

in slicks of blood.

fallen angel laughter

rises behind illegal smoke,

arc-lit cars die in sparks

as filipino grill chefs

sweat behind

the burger stands.

we smile with meat

in our teeth,

meat-smiles,

animal breath.

out here

we is stoned.

out here

there is

no law.

Poem by Morgan Downie

on to the midnight