Tell Me If You Think I’m Going To Get Run Over

Head pounding under the arcs
Of criminal fog hooks,
The rain hanging
In the last of my mind,

This is the end
Of the pretty-girl-naked dream
As the sun sinks away
With a night wind.

I hear men in an old harbour
That trumpets out sound,
Water-pipes vibrating
As their pickled voices rip
Against popular melodies,

I watch as murky buildings
Bend towards the salt sprays
And the howling,

I listen out for silence
And try to head towards calm.

I walk stubborn
Against the turning page
Of this urban iron maze,
But the pictures keep snapping
Like winter-stirred heartstrings,

I stray into a knit of buried fear,
Bungled by the salt cuts on my face,
And fall against statues suffocated by ice.

The sky is down,
I glimpse skeletal shadows
As they lurk down hungry streets,

Road noises hit random,

My coat imitates
The shiny mists of early snow,
My lips chap up tight,

The streets are fearsome with rustling,
Wrecked cars sit spent like tired cows,
The day dies and the grey licks darker.

Gales seem to slice out advice,
The rain seems to beat with a point,

I try to move with instinct,

I need agility,
Great fortune
And help as an option,

I’m taking risks.

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