Pain of the city (Vol. 3)

                             Pondering verses through populated city stations. I wait enveloped in gray transit headlines. My studies temporary relieve me of vulturous evenings. An autumnal aftermath of brown paper bags in sordid pigeon lairs. Suburban and musky, the intersected skyline zooms in transient range. Windows lighted in fluorescent skyline, spare a cigarette, maybe some change, we are moderately deranged in translucent perimeters. Sidewalk bums in their tumultuous routines, rest in morning aftermath above filthy sewage drains. My words are temped among enraged multitudes, we cling to minute interactions in dismal alleyways, where street walkers gather loose tobacco and handouts.
                           Methadone clinics,  drooping eyes staggering towards an exclusionary presence of Honda Civics, temporarily portraying lives not worth trying for. All the millionaires reside on outskirts of dense, black, smoke rituals, descending downward off the horizon, then outward through far off atmospheres, lightly surfacing rural carpeted asphalts, unraveling around airport arenas.
                          A.M. rush hour abruptly unfolds upon windy days in April. Over  neighborhood footbridges tired feet follow abandoned walkways, beside decorative trees, solitary, adorned in exterior awakenings.  Crimson and violet, leaves bud in aspiring columns throughout township vestibules. Early stages of expected foliage artificially keep the natives at bay.
                        Nocturnal are our beliefs, in frivolous intervals of premature despair.
                        I've heard the night words as a child, being sung to me from desolate woods before dusk.
                        Dreams and delusion would find me in my teenage years dying in disbelief.
                        Eating and indulging in brutal song, pulling corks.
                        Mysterious is youth within withering pillage, hungry and alone I was and still am.
                        Take this bloody knife to the majestic throne.
                        Dig deep down into the vulnerable flesh and bone. Pull royally out through stringy sinews and tender skin-chords, circulating through incomprehensible agony and uncanny defeat.
                        Vast in boney arteries now, take the forgotten manuscript from the emperors soiled mahogany cloak.               Pumping beating fists into heaving chest cavities.
                        Expand your weapon, watch a cellular disperse scatter upon porcelain tiled floorboards.
                        He is dead now.
                        God is dead now.