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a poem by John Flynn
Olneyville
Heartburn from supper of rage out of a can,
every mutter under breath peppered with lewd curses.
Rage well served, chemical-fed
a tryst with what bleeds beyond grief,
what's left when the rest has been lost.
Three a.m. a prison.
You hear the bass-line of a passing car.
The streets are not shining. Never were.
The streets are techno-American, getting gentrified,
re-zoned, gay-friendly, investor ready,
known for the fumes of their long-defeated inmates.
You watch them trudge in and out of the 7-11,
waiting for your connection, bleeding in the dark
with howlers, head-bangers and the blind
pension-collecting washed-up hope mongers,
their deadened eyes fixed on a cop
pausing longer than usual at an intersection.
Go away, Cop. Nothing here to redeem you.
every mutter under breath peppered with lewd curses.
Rage well served, chemical-fed
a tryst with what bleeds beyond grief,
what's left when the rest has been lost.
Three a.m. a prison.
You hear the bass-line of a passing car.
The streets are not shining. Never were.
The streets are techno-American, getting gentrified,
re-zoned, gay-friendly, investor ready,
known for the fumes of their long-defeated inmates.
You watch them trudge in and out of the 7-11,
waiting for your connection, bleeding in the dark
with howlers, head-bangers and the blind
pension-collecting washed-up hope mongers,
their deadened eyes fixed on a cop
pausing longer than usual at an intersection.
Go away, Cop. Nothing here to redeem you.
© by John Flynn
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #18 ~ November 2011