A rage inside
a fallen wind
upon icicles
melting like daggers
voices
shouts
in a new moon
in a pregnant mountain
for rage
a desire on black blankets
absorbing the heat of day
to explode with night
hear the scream
listen to the siren
these are the streets.

Derangement

Count this on the fingers
I am truly a lonely straggler
starring at pavement
following the swaying crowd
like a glass of sherry
drunken
no more
this little crystal glass
in the chest
replaces the heart
leaving reflections of more pain
of dirty brains hung up to dry
rude
corrupted
nothing more
no escape from this tunnel
of roughage
stay and scrape
through false doors
again
again
loneliness remains.