In the graffiti wizard's residence
creatures lay on flaky stairs
eyes hollow black, on worn out
arms pertrude angry blood-blue
acid, violate organs, dreams.
Open 3C, woman stirs ancient
aromas in a charcoal pan, she
calls a wok, daughter's daughters
dance around a red wood table
adorned by paper dragon plates.
Next door, the girl wakes, a
sober memory of today, and roots,
when the phone crackles, long spent,
she had nothing any way, to give
the one person, most like her.
Today is Sunday, the day changes,
by year, time reminds, five years
of irrelevance, she steps out in
mercy of revoltees, frayed boots
plod past mute and jaded allies.
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