who could breathe in the city with the
air tight and crowded and the
paperwork piled in the gutters
between stacks of ill-suited
face-painted monkeys
eating each other's grins
as the world turned
slowly to its end
a chestpain that never would
go away till it broke itself
out and cracked the sewers
where they put the poop
they used to fling and smear
on each other and still would
if they hadn't hidden it away
so they could peruse and try
on fancy clothes poop free
so the heiress could move through
the shop window where the masses
had no poop to fling anymore
and still i'm not breathing as
wine flights pass through the bowels
and yet wind still into the
cracked sewers laden with
processed cheese plates
and pâtés
the river of shit
with its floating sachets
like the gondola ride we rode
down canals old enough
to remember the taste of our blood
my mistress is as old as the hills
its the teeth and eyes that show it
she laughs when she cries
and says "Shit is the realm of the poet."
