The Street

The clown with his red cherub face A maggot in his twisted brain The jack-booted leather Christian With dull razorblades down his spin Staring down from their high windows The taste of gin upon their tongues Lusty fire crackling in their eyes Peering through a glowing skylight Her luscious body lies reclined Naked upon a soft red divan Bathed by the nocturnal moonlight Dark hair caressing her full breasts Wineglass in her ruby nailed hand Cigarette smoke hangs like a mist Within her thick glassed fishbowl perch Well aware of her voyeur friends A wood fire smoke perfumed grey fog Creeps through the emerald city In the lighted valley below The street sounds echoing upward A lone saxophone serenades From a lighted corner news stand The battered open case lying Before white patent leather shoes A hooded figure at the keys With faded fingerless gloves The sound of blues bathing the air Reflecting off sueted windows A cab slowly crawls to a halt Before a finely dressed doorman He receives a small diamonded hand Her stiletto heel strikes concrete She walks the carpeted runway He opens a cipher locked door She passes him a fresh twenty Before her image disappears A leather clad rider appears Astride a black silver chromed horse Gliding down the shadowy street Vanishing with a ghostly roar A nearby siren screams and hearts skip Gunshots ring and distant tires squeal The saxophone player pauses The Clown and Christian shift their gaze