IN BALTIMORE

 

In Baltimore

for wrestling

not Poe’s grave

or cognac or poetry

 

but to the desolate

image of mass crowds

screaming for blood

 

Muses can’t sing

about any righteousness

the frenzied mob

twisting & yelping

 

None but my own

no fault placed

on any other shoulders

 

that deludes me

subterranean Poe

dead & buried

for the sins of America

 

but hence more

I yell for blood,

pain and agony

 

Nevermore cries

the decaying raven

sinister plights

of human hunters

 

blood lust itself

overtakes any

and all compassion.




 

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