Snip the wires and settle down; 
muffle them bells, the least one's 
done for me - dazed scan for data, 
nope, he don't live around here, 
stories, just scrutinise his numb study - 
dabbling among gutters to spy vainly, 
what's the bar system? - to be almost 
silent, like a mouse-trap, then 
pilfer, on the police radio, a smoky sky 
cluttered with malevolent emotions reified. 
The bad thing about dreams - they 
come true, and you have to join in - 
a crack-up threatens - the newer 
the vein, the more the nurse hurts. 
Her bluff is magnetic, electric - just money 
loose in the bank, heyday brilliance now 
dull like a bulb in a poor kitchen. 
Three rings, don't pick it up, a gesture 
pointing to a cigarette butt 
spun hissing into the wet yard 

Did you call me impotent? What punk's glib tirade what damage what leak? Talk to
me in lip synch. I'm sticking a nib's complaint right in here and I guess it'll
soon be time to go - the watercolours on the wall make a house a home, however
dim the light - the submission that comes from escape, the money projected onto
the landscape as though a god were fondling the terrain - hey, Fatso, is that
the highway patrol? Stop reading that adolescent cryptic trash; get ready for
dark agony lustre clash, the more bizarre the better, that's what the money
means - we're not bankers, we're their opposite numbers.  

The East Village Poetry Web
John Tranter