Gabriel’s Mad Ave. Apocalyptic Horn

I’m still dwelling on how ironic all the feverish proclamations
of capitalism are going to look someday.
…………………..                                      —Justin E.H. Smith


I’m through with dumpster dinners
at the corner of Wall Street and New

I’m so unsold by the Coke sign’s faded blush
that thrusts from desiccated dollar dunes
—an embarrassment

a crass embellishment
stuffed in the cleavage of a spent whore
who promised lasting bliss but ended a hag
with smeared lips and hellish scent

The cyclone’s gone that slew the sacred cow
when gangs of suited crooks blew through
with milking stools to sit beside her tits of gold
with digits itching to draw her dry
with lips pursed to suck her blood
with that singular sort of lust,
twisted— a rusty screw
that drills down and down
until nothing’s left to suck or bust

I’m done— we’ve lurched too long through
spoiled earth as Gabriel’s Mad Ave. apocalyptic horn
croaked more than blew

by Jim Culleny

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