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by Fabrice B. Poussin



As the City Smokes


Staring down the wet avenue the revelers stagger

Ageless humans with forgotten gazes

Eyeing the body art they already forgot they purchased.


Yellow and checkered antiques zoom by

Splashing what they can of freshness upon them

Causing commotions of cackles and cusses.


It would have been a night to remember,

Stories for the books if they might only recall

Who was first to fall in the pool fully clothed.


Another day is about to begin in Gotham

In the alleys the bodies will be buried quickly

For it is but an elusive hour when all seems quiet.


Subway vents are afire as if crematoriums

Of memories to be engulfed in flames

They smoke in wait of the next night to come.


A metamorphosis has commenced for these humanoids

Now standing upright with a more secure gait

As they enter the deserted halls to take them home.


Drained of all but life, they will dream upon the vinyl seats

Cradled by the steel wheels of their magic carriage

To awaken again under the gentle light of a friendly star. 



a line, (a short blue one)



Between Two Deaths


Darkness prevails in the midst of this August day

he turns and seeks for an answer upon this wall

thick with a strange mist made of a sticky fog.


It seems he has lost the sense of equilibrium

panic settles within his wondering thoughts

lost as he contemplates what tomorrow may cease.


Living between two deaths he ponders the miracle

which took him out of this odd slumber

imagining flashes of the instant when it all began. 


Standing on the edge of a dizzying infinity

his present freezes as if it were to last into the unknown

and he asks aloud: what will it be like in the end?


Dazzled by the impossibility of his own reckoning

he chooses to rest as a crawling realm comes closer

in a shroud he may sleep and drink of an everlasting dream.



a line, (a short blue one)



Cadillac Emperor


Yesterday a Cadillac, today a Land Rover

gadgets galore even under the leather seats.


The wheels roar passed the last curb of green

nothing can slow the emperor’s coming.


Like a siren from Hades a horn clamor to the peak

as terrified peons make room for the crazed apparition.


Upon the black mat he will step, smart device in hand

important as if royalty upon a Hermine path.


Scanning the surroundings from those six feet to the skies

even the fearless critters freeze in their steps.


There is no escape for those in their rusty Pintos

it’s live or die under the ruthless fist of the ruler.


Refuged in the borrowed palace he surveys the realm where

none should move if he wants to remain in his dangerous clutch.


This king reveals orbs of fiery red in the frigid room

surrounded by so many cadavers fresh as the morning dew.


Alone at the command of the monstrous carriage his world

he frowns to maintain a steel hold on the meek souls.




a line, (a short blue one)



Rain in August


The sun loves a rainy day in August

when he two can slumber in a little longer

I share in the scent of the last few drops

and recline in the distant shade of a giant oak.


The rain must enjoy the raising heat

when with her glassy friends she can rest

no longer fearing the vanishing in the afternoon

and I sit back in the approach of a gentle ray.


Flakes have time to come for a wintry visit

knowing their infinite beauty, they waltz

in their dresses of diamonds, pearls and shiny stars

and I match them in a suit made for an angel.


Bolts of lightning may be fast in their race

yet they slow as they slash through the air above

their temporary scars it seems in deep sorrow

and I stand hands stretched to capture the light. 



a line, (a short blue one)



Window dressing


5th Avenue needs little introduction

to the opulent lady in Singapore 

a Mecca made of tinsel and glitter 

it still brightens her features into the night


I too have sauntered the gaping stones

mesmerized by the heavens I could no longer see 

my body shaken at the sight of arrogant sales

stealing a gaze for lack of borrowed fortunes. 


Holidays on fire for the condemned little souls

staring at the bus ticket, home to another city

miles away but centuries apart

their delicate eyes question this obscenity. 


Once long ago, holding hands we too smiled

in each other’s warmth greeted by a soothing snow

while the train took strangers on a fantasy ride

if only we could join the ride in this upscale world. 


Now the lights are dark as I have lost you

swallowed by the hungry mouth of an abyss

made by man at the heart of the multitude

5th Avenue, unsuspected road to hades. 



a line, (a blue one)


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