Hip.

With paint and fury the urban demi-Gods
flip solitude and make it trendy.
Splashing bi-polar obsessions onto carbon-
copied canvas. Sunglasses, bandanas
and all; surfing hype and the beauty of art
and temper.
Stop fucking reading, beating off to DVD’s of flesh
and listening to spoken word.
Watch. Art. Feel your muscle build in both
biceps and your spine tingle and tighten
to the synth and weed.

Smoke rings talk and talk and talk and talk
and talk and talk and talk and talk
and talk and talk
until chalk and talc and talk and talk
and talk and talk become tawlk and taulk
and lose all meaning.

I hear the scream of a Tyrannosaur.
My bedroom window is open:
It’s still screaming.
Chatter and anonymous voices
try to contain the shreiks and vices
and feeble pains.
The winds stab walls like cans
of spray-paint, shaking and clicking:

Stencilling Clowns onto the sides of
Banks and markets.
Burning money; green and purple and gold.
Dealing with white cheeks and wide red faces that
talk and talk and talk and taulk and tawlk and talk
and tawlk and talk and taulk and taulk.

And lose all meaning.

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