The cars make incredible noise as they slowly kill

the environment; eyes long and yellow,

their bodies parading their own masochism.

And I would love to be angry. Because I know they’re

slowly killing me and everyone, I know everyone

is slowly killing everyone.

(I don’t want to sound numb.

Or be numb. I don’t need the vanity of that idea).

Can I really peel back at the smoke and sick breath

of this or any city? Stopping industry as its petals crack

and pollinate the streets with dirty bees. Why would I?

Or how? The nameless I don’t dare think of, wiping my eyes,

drinking cold drinks and feeling childish at a drag night,

smelling salts offered by old people

on the Camden streets

in exchange for teeth and sawdust. I want to sing Amazing

Grace by the lock, swimming in the waters of the mad factory

metropolis.

Nobody will even know what kills them. I don’t.

Just eating our bliss, smoke on our tongues, and rooftops

and skylines where the shadows do nothing. I am home.