street poet

whip-smart and blood-stained

the words leapt from his mouth

at a dizzying rate

extolling the virtues 
of love and pain 

and whatever else there is

mixing in the cruelest irony

with comments on rusty flowers

and frozen trees 

all the rot he had found

I knew lurked within me

he sped on with vitriol

the likes of which 
any dictator would envy

yet nobody could move

as he turned phrases

spun gold with his tongue

of such exquisite beauty

the Perseids were cascading

illuminating the darkest places

he was constantly beaten

whether from opening his mouth

or from ending his thoughts unhappily

but every night

he took his place on the street

screaming amid the squalor

and I for one listened

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