Propane burned on my TV,
The billboard sold masked obscenity,
A homeless man slept by a church,
Next to the chapel and cathedral,
Whose priest and preacher are dead,
Buried in a coffin pedestal,
Wearing crimson threads.
A green nightclub looms down to road,
Where fevered youth congregate to its gates,
They have come to celebrate the sun,
And worship the night in song,
Heads fed with loaded artillery,
Fine powders, instant ecstasies.
Tomorrow, they will awake and return
To ordinary noon,
Where they will sit in the institutions’ rooms,
Contemplating a cure for brain rot,
Dripping with zeitgeist.
© Hannah Allen
Excerpt from the book “A New City”
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Photo Credit: © AJ Wilhelm/Ocean/Corbis