Advice from a backalley wizard

Drink merrily, it is Christmas
on skid row where cars hump out
with their charges like tiny
trailers or triangles on skin.
Some put their mouths to pipes
under the fish Jesus bred well
and decide instead on a cigarette
or young girls or old Kentucky.
A few bludgeoned streets of incest
bind the wallets tight, when
Batman was a boy here looking black
like the rest toeing balloons
man-faced rats scurry through.
Cook your shot, cook your shot,
do your arm like you’re supposed to
before Christmas is over
and litter lies dead in the after-party.
Where have the biscuits gone?
Are those crumbs, are they breathing?

~ by Jeremy on January 24, 2011.

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