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
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.
Photo: Georgia Pinaud