In Murder Metropolis
there’s always a cop
that sure as hell would rather be anyplace else
but first on the scene
standing next to some cock eyed non sequitur
who knows what happened
but ain’t talking.
Menthol smoke circles overhead like Chinese serpents,
The crowd circles, shuffles, periscope their eyes
in vicarious postures of being cool and hip to the scene.
A little bit of genuine outrage
circles a whole lot of genuine apathy
like two winos with knives looking to prove a point.
In Murder Metropolis
there’s always blood.
There’s blood on the concrete,
blood on the leaves and in the bushes,
blood on the broken glass, in the victims shoes.
Blood paints the neighborhood
in the graffiti of those who’ve
lost blood
as blood is measured in brothers, sisters,
lovers, grannies, cousins,
the truly innocent
and a few trifling bastards
that maybe didn’t deserve to die
victims of a politically created devils triangle,
caught up in a racially orchestrated embargo as
poverty slowly cannibalizes it’s way down
to one
big
bang
death
A bloody death
of gleaming white bones exposed like betrayal
and hot purple pink entrails slipping their tangles around
misfortunate illusions of prayers and paid dues.
A ghetto death
a whore’s death
a junkie’s death
a hustler’s death
a death alongside roaches
a death hidden from sorrow
by statistics flung down garbage chutes.
A death made up of hundreds of cheap Saturday night,
wrong place, wrong time
kind of deaths.
That’s just the way it is.
In Murder Metropolis
Down here in Murder Metropolis
murder comes easy, comes cheap, comes often
Comes out of no where, without warning
Dark gangways harbor nightmares of beatings and rape.
Abandoned buildings are drug cafes
and catacombs of devastated dignity.
Dark el platforms and urine washed subways
transmit their vibrations of inchoate dread
deep into our primal subconscious warning triggers
of predators, shadows and fangs
politicians talk that talk
but won’t walk that walk
down them same streets at the same time
of them long hot summer nights of busted dreams
and empty pocket desperations that gather and feed on
despair like maggots on a dead dog between the currency exchange and that dark vacant lot.
Over here in Murder Metropolis
606 might as well be 666
The chalk outlines are drawn
into warding circles
used in the workings of bad voodoo spells.
Dreadlock Mary hopes
no bad spirits get in
and that the rest get out.
In Murder Metropolis
vulpine copters circle overhead
Squadrols, accustomed to the pathological excess,
of blood, despair, race and poverty
superheated on alcohol, crack and potato chips,
circle the block without stopping.
Raven’s wings of paranoia circles our brain
The manic voice of our inner fiend
stutter spits jail house conspiracy theories
that sound more and more real
every election year.
Jack leg preachers,
far flung bastards of Father Divine,
after counting
no more than three blow jobs in the collection plate,
preach the word of rats in the pantry,
bad horoscopes
and forces beyond the scope of free prayers or discount hopes.
In Murder Metropolis
the picture within a picture
behind the picture
is often painted with the same primal colored brush
of black faces, white disgust,
red blood and yellow journalism.
It’s a graphic novel
of a graphically told one sided story
of the seething psycho rage
of psycho killers
gangsters, crack heads, whores and fiends.
banshees and boogie men
all drooling, twitching,
dancing, rapping
and living it up
in a social experiment
nicknamed Murder Metropolis.
In Murder Metropolis
our lovers, in-laws, cohorts and friends
are felonies before the fact.
Our neighbors fit a profile
that’s just waiting to happen,
just seconds away
from being the subject of a forensics report.
You learn quick to look over your shoulders
lock your doors
Express no emotion, least of all fear.
In Murder Metropolis
Don’t think
Don’t blink
They know where you live
They live there too.
In war zone city
In stalag 606...
Big shoulders
Funky onions
Murder Metropolis.
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