Second Class Souls

The steeple casts them in a hellish shadow . . .

Second Class Souls

 

licklicklicking they wash with numb taste buds the city grime -

the spray painted ooze that oils their flesh in sick sticky permanence of gang marks

these moss coated sewer rats cleanse themselves – o n e b y o n e b y o n e

(scratching their tongues against their tissue until it burns with pizza grease and rotten sewage waste - until it bleeds sweet blood)

putrid saliva dips them within an unholy – so unholy – baptismal ritual

dunking them – drowning them – and they scream righteous praises before the church!

(its paint scratched with broken fingernails - painted with a w***e’s screams while the steeple casts them in hellish shadow)

but they heap good thanks for the reprieve from the blistering boils of sunshine.

 

 

and they – the stiletto felines so thinly clothed and less scantily fleshed

with ribs that define lustrous curves when viewed by drunken men (or men hunting with feverish haze a one night convenience)

they swoon upon fragmented stairs beneath the yellow light glow with intoxication

(the perfume of their workshop is brainwashing, eating, enslaving their bodies to men – their nightmare ridden childish souls to the concrete dollars at their nude toes)

 

 

 

and they – the paper bag cloaked bundles s h i v e r i n g in the heat

(s h i v e r i n g because their blueblue liquid has been polluted with fine tip needles of lovely poison)

they mourn black tears as they bare their scars – the lacerations of veteran decor

begging to wealthy heel clicks for just a copper more for the hallucinations

just a washington face upon green for a lifetime of addiction – j u s t o n e m o r e

o n e m o r e . . . to dull the self-loath to temporary reveries

 

 

 

t h e y t h e y t h e y – these sewer rats with hunchback bones scramble for shelter

(forever in highs seeking their cardboard tomb peace from dainty heel clicks and penny indulgences)

t h e y t h e y t h e y - oh the precious venice seeping into the muck – what once was the taj mahal sinks and claws for air

and they – their faces wax in the waning moonlight – s h i v e r i n g beneath the yellow light

they crawl on rounded bellies and fade in the steeple shadow amongst the derelict tulips

 

(sinking downhill – s l o w l y down the concrete graffiti - oh so beautifully in an unholy baptism)

these second class souls . . . last class citizens . . . melt beneath a stained glass Virgin.

Author's Note

An experiment in grammatical playfulness. A bit of pessimism.

Reviews

[Matio]

I haven't read many poems in this website, but your work is definitely one of the best I've read. The most attractive feature of this poem is that it is exceptional and unusual. Also there are mane striking images in it. Great work.

good luck, Arnas.