This city’s cracked
by soulless crooks
and full
of aging fools.
It’s hard
to stay on guard
for altruism and bounty.
The after-smoke
will stop
all clicks’ of clock –
a finger pulls
to-temple-point-trigger.
One less to heaven’s counted.

Realities
are puppet shows –
deluded and bizarre.
Price’s climbing
to the roof,
with poverty
hits pavement.
Once shinning,
like a childish smile,
the fall of glory’s star
looks straight in eyes awestruck,
still hoping for enslavement.

This city’s self-destructing tune
is hexed
by own beliefs.
It places never-stealing-hands
for exhibitions.
The hands are clean,
but no one checks
a few tricks up one’s sleeves.
This city’s glands
are spooling
on bloody-starved-ambitions.

3 August 2007