Those Fluorescent Shadows

 

Here they are with soft fucks
ready at the back of their tongues,
eyes drunk as sun rays, mixing up
the words amo ammo amour armor
while marching down Broadway,
mouths full of gelato and stories,
hollering through traffic with
those ricocheting voices,
observing smoke stacks that billow
out like white phosphorous in the night.
They catch a whiff of sewage
and grin with gap-toothed
smiles, reciting love the smell of napalm
while some booming voice
on the radio blooms into a sweet
obituary of the young corpses
with luscious hair being born
far across the jutting sea.
Somewhere in you us all
they are calling taxi taxi medic
and when each body returns
to showers and sofas and kitchen tables,
heads are placed into hands
and limbs rest on cold granite,
waiting to be folded
and wrapped in lamplight.

 


 

(© Phoebe Pan)