A Miscreant’s Impression of the Metropolis

I want nothing from today but the most rudimentary
colours, as in Hockney, as in the canine
sense of living –

to feel the abject twinge of a
familiar quickening lust. Some errant
frisbee, a violent run-in
with transcendence.

I won’t accept this city
(its downcast cars, its plaintive rain)
its tedium and inconsequence are
just fatal. I’m in the careful business of
demolishing its presumptions, hurling lattes,
cracking craniums wide open.

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