(I manage to crib Keats and Shelley in this one…).
pigeons
Flocking to the courtyard,
fucking on the girders,
flying into faces
of downtown’s puissant gods,
tired whores of commerce,
oil-slicked larcenous sluts
who toil at the till
with toothsome smiles
and the practiced prayers
to Mammon’s grand golden calf.
Feeding in the trash bins,
fighting on the benches,
flapping out of anger
at injustice by the Fates
who made them pigeons,
Euterpe’s garroted croak
clucked to catch crack rocks,
gin-cracked irascible cries
to call their own to roost
where Gods’ sights neglect
all that’s within the decay
of their colossal wreck;
the insouciant shits paint
Thalia’s tags, legends, marks,
symbols in inchoate scrawl
indicating defiance –
malformed fingers, all.
Falling from the steeples,
feathers adrift on breezes
feeble with indifference.
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