steal beams sprout their branches over streetvales,
grey forests spit fire and noise,
scattered details sprawl out of the glut,
an epilogue of constant, rhythmic breath,
streams of stifling wind that creeps in the lungs,
and into everybody’s mind.
to be on a pointless way,
for the perfection in death.
soughing breath of lonesome furnaces,
rattling bronchia vomit blood,
shattered heads rest at the kerbstone,
mournful distance shimmers in vapour,
hordes of aliens shovel guts into the night,
and warm rain trickles down the drain.
footsteps on the pointless way,
until there’s nothing at all.