Day Three Hundred and Twenty-One.


Izzy circle


Siri says:
This is the city Baybend
This is where they found you, shining in the rubble


Sarah circle


Shatter-day night and the race cars are hustling
and the pharaohs are fixing to fight
Vegas, you’re a tawdry love on a hot night
(and they’re all hot nights, aren’t they, darling?)
Mumbling gansters with twelve-dollar trilbies
are combing their pockets for shirtfronted change
and cocking their eyebrows to the flamingo legs
that are strutting in high, wasted arcs down the streets
Out in the distance, thunder is brewing
readying to rain down redemption to run down the bitumen
into the sewers with yesterday’s meat
and the scurrying rats with their atrophied feet
it’s a big bawdy babe of a city in summer
stewed in dreams lost at dinner and love gone by morning
of wedding dress tatter and old neon hiss
of tits-out seduction and wine tannin kiss
it’s the holiest of holies in the motel room toilets
and the sick deathless drone of the big cooling fans
it’s the spew on the carpet and the hair in the door
and the ‘what-happened’ stories to keep from your wives



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