Wolfen 2







Leaning from his limousine,

in pleasant post-cocaine haze

the mayor of the city

ambles after his wife

through the spinning sails

of Battery Park.

In after-five splendour

her nipples visible

through a white halter

she watches as they tear out his throat

and come for her

through the split screen windmill,

leaving the bodies for forensics.


Who would’ve thought that turning the sods on


would be so dangerous.



The wolves are out

loping through the city

at one with the

silhouetted ruins

a smoking waste of

haze and ash,

they take the hand of the chief

and toss it over the curb,

his fingers still twitching the grip of

a loaded pistol.



In the penthouse of the entrepreneur

the lead investigator and his lover

turn their arms through the

architectural model

white powder flying over

slums transformed

we won’t take your land

with the sweep of his body

and a terrible discontinuity

all our ideals are reduced to dust

in the shag pile.


Vertical venetians split

like tendons in this pulsing,

glittering self-strata,

reeking with hedge-funds

and well-embroidered egoism,

a fugitive sense of mastery

like smoke

alongside the pitiless facts of




Up on the Brooklyn bridge

the group parade of lost souls

tangles with rust

dancing on the rivets

in the rarefied air of the umpteenth tier

as on a drumbeat of

tautest animal hide

in the forest.

A tribe without a language

or home ground, riding swinging girders,

passing chains through working memory,

the silver fabric of the Hudson

dazzling the steps

of the master of ceremonies.


In the shade of a hand

out across the steel angles

and laced through these cold cables,

the air is as pure as God

and they are mourning everything

that has been lost.


We are all of us on borrowed time.








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