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Ben River

Underbelly rumbled, somewhere in the deep the sky took
a breath and all the careless papers that had lost
their pockets and tables were wandering the pavement.

Gutter wails and foot clanks muffled the air;
the night owls were swooping, bird purrs from the centre rig
while the moonlit drunks and piranhas glared from phone boxes,
on a quick subterranean fix, to be born gold in spray cans.

Earthly tones held up the air, moving parts on their way to the pawn shop
while crack city exploded into a pound sniffing bed bar.

Strange mediums flock past the station at all times,
leaving scribbles on the railway and blueprints for the underlings,
sailing through the city’s plumbing,
hurtling through the bends.