urban sentinel of the east, satellite of the old western night

I tried another poem. They seem to be keeping me sane by making me sound insane. um.. it's dark, and tasty.

banana peels and condoms cremate the path through the reservoir.
Be good, if you can’t, shadowbox questions waywardly.
We cough on the dust of aged halls,
junk-ill, ill of the junk that follows dawn.

The old and lived glow a degradation in regards to their living,
as a junkie craves the drop and the man, as hath been done in youth.
Cynics embark knowing their children will board the same ferry,
bountiful in; regulations, sorcery, cures, curses, errant maxims.

The toothless young woman donning canceled eyes, worn lips,
skirting cold turkey banquets to bask in rosy summer-sun chances.
Several years lost in several minutes, like kilograms of bad habits.
A ghost yearns what it does not have, a warm body to within, dance.

Sprinkled gold above legendary hotel doorknobs. Behind, a cell.
Not a flicker of an eyelid over the atomic bombs, nightbugs,
But fine faces of flatulent friends biding to collect fond flesh.
Con-artists, crooks be nothing more than they are,
nothing to lose but their touch.

Rancid muses, warm whimpers of lore lost, taxicabs, clever corners,
lit of kindled banana peels and kindling condoms.

Author's Note

I hope you won't get mad that I wrote "condoms."