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,
meat-smiles,
animal breath.
out here
we is stoned.
out here
there is
no law.
Poem by Morgan Downie
on to the midnight