Sharp Noir (Part I)

As the cold takes its first length

of claw to the back of my neck,

I steal a last look at my reflection,

cast through dark sunglasses;

the extremity, phone-booth

cigarette glow castrates

interminably the light

behind these Modigliani eyes.

I slip out, receiver down, between

shards of rain, into the ceilidh

of the street instigated by

the auspicious deal-making of sirens

with the rapid beating of the strip.

With a face in barbarian tribute,

I walk a film epic gait, without

any weakening of the spirit

- my stance is preposterous

as I slip in prevalence around

silver, gleaming death machines.

They turn wheels into their slides,

laces spry about my ankles,

at once mock at and traduce whilst

free from muteness and retreat;

steerers go foetal in their seats,

framed in primetime terror.

Alligators: their meat is considered

a delicacy. The collective envisage

a body in the road,

strewn in grisly attitudes,

for the power of the dead is

they see you all the time,

as a voyeur inflicts introspection

amongst complacent hosts.

Emitting phrases of interest

at the back of my stride

that neither blocks nor coarsens,

they signal onward in an

empty, corporate way, wonder

why they were all so afraid.

As the length of my line

is somewhat determined by

the width of my page, I come

to rest, as a religious zealot

who kills for the closed logic

of belief, I yell finally,

“Late Edition, Herald Tribune!”

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