Chrome

Of the plated morning of food and breadcrumbs roasted fried deep in oils of islands of faraway in the Mediterranean Sea alone with a palm tree or two on the windshield of ragged little book windows and desks with inkpot drum-beats gangs running on rowdy streets chasing donkeys and dogs with capitalized initials on book covers with floral inlay pages bound in sinful leather and calico of blue and b=green semi solid glue hardened with time and beer ice cold folded with think-line creases of iron and brass with zinc or copper making bronze kettles for a cup of tea and yet another cup of good time laughter and screams after bullet shots boom, boom, boom books with holes in them disappeared words telling you the harder side of half stories of angels and arrows and bows and shooters bowman showmen dancing in the streets under pressure with queen and a rolling stone gathering no moss, oh moss, oh gloss – playground football friend and a stranger born anew scars left on wrists by belts around cow necks milk drip, drip, drip dripping eat you well think good be good for everyone and for someone else too for this is a good sweet song that we sing and it is not the song for something or someone you hate even in your pleasantest of dreams in hard chestnut wood desks horsehair thin lines fallen from horses that were taken to the water made to drink their sorrows and disagreements back in those days when everything was the shape of a mouse running scurrying into the night inside a manhole on a highway speeding trucks and cars underground perennial river of drainage and dreams and urine and semen daring to dye themselves black with the darkness of the inky underground night in shiny chrome