This place was eaten
by a wind from the North.
I had a name for these streets,
though these streets had no
name for me, and there I stood,
an unnameable clutching
his broken book and dusty jaw,
waiting for a bus that would never come.
Structures? Overrated says me.
Syntax? With to it hell.
Sometimes, all you really need
is a whiskey sour and a well-timed screech.
Other times, like this porcelain night,
you need a plate of sexual frustration.