Synaesthesia Magazine Americana - Page 6

there is the subterranean

movement of horns,

subway noise following

beats, fat and languid,

heads shaven, dancing

in the lazy headlights

passing weary through

the arms of night.

a man wearing shorts

walks from the slaughter-

house dragging a jawbone

worn out shoes slipping

in slicks of blood.

fallen angel laughter

rises behind illegal smoke,

arc-lit cars die in sparks

as filipino grill chefs

sweat behind

the burger stands.

we smile with meat

in our teeth,


animal breath.

out here

we is stoned.

out here

there is

no law.

Poem by Morgan Downie

on to the midnight