Siren Soul

I have snowbanks to thank for
ditching the idea of thaw,
like there was ever 

anything wrong with crashing.

Bashing the shape of my
mother’s forehead on the wall
behind which neighbours scream or fuck and
sometimes both,

I went for a winter midnight’s drive through
my head,
’cause my car
was out of gas.

Fifteen messages later,
my dealer finally called back, said he would be
dry until Wednesday night, it’s Sunday morning mother
fucker,

still Saturday in my brain, least until proving first light. And I’m in a fist fight with English but it brought a knife because it can’t distinguish between a gentleman’s agreement and murderous appetites.

What do I know? A poor man’s linguist, jingoist geists. Bill collectors. Snowbanks.

It all seems so trite.

I had greatness in sights, sweet whispers of entitlement, but it came with a price. Fleeing the scene of my biggest crime, cordoned off by old gripes with compromised aluminum.

The sirens in my soul have never blared so spitefully.

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