Black turtlenecked imitations of human beings
That suck on cigarettes and fuck and cry and suck on more cigarettes
As if this were the secret code to happiness.
The sun has set with a sting in the eyes of the theatrically blind.
Tendrils of steam dance up into the sky from coffee cups.
In the dark there is a smell so strong it could crawl up your nostrils and kill you,
But they drink the coffee anyway and stain
Themselves with an acrid coffeespot that cleanses their souls
And leaves them again fitting best when the lights are off.
Their eyes glow with terror in the dark.
They swallow their own spit and their necks strain like a bird's
That is sipping water from a street puddle.
These birds on the tar street look like women on their knees
Begging the sun for happiness even though it is
Not the sun they see but the moon and a few starry stains
In the sky that is filled with smoke
From cigarettes lit up after sex.
This is romantic and the roses grow.
There is a smell to it, the sex and the coffee and the smoke.
It coats the room like grease on the walls and it's
Nauseating, it's dangerous and this is why they think it is
Marvelous, it thrills them.
They are reptiles, all of them, jerking their heads feverishly.
Back.