The golden street lights and trumpet blares spread

a triumphant swagger over the night
despite its darkness, in spite of the head
figures in charge of the deafness and light:
I just count seeds, and sometimes eat them too,
under the wing of blinding projectors
and visions of beef between rival crews –
and I flee with my pocket protectors:
The night is gilt, but it's also so black
that you cannot see inside the blue flames
that reshuffle the airs, the fears, the lack
of comfort here – He takes his pistol, aims:

The pigeon, caught like a peppery pheasant,
spills out on the ave – the sound unpleasant.
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