Breakfast of Champions

Written by: Paul Sylvester

my anonymity is stalking the streets 
like a preoccupation. mornings, slowly I creep
into august daylight, filling beat boroughs.
passing the time: digging fake burrows: 
motel rabbitrooms don't come with sheets: 
boxes gloomy in the dinge; dead-end streets.

dark corners; alleys; clean and replete.
rowers; faces; kept random, entreat
to be shadowed and cut - copied and reprinted:
E. de Silhouette: silk-screen and tinted.
marionette hands are fire-flies nigh night
like acariasis-itchy eyes: broken from sight

watching the downpour: 
downbeat and worn 			
like tire-worm whitewalls: 
peeling and torn.

the blanched, arched faces 
(trampled like elephant’s acacia)
are garnets staring blankly at me
between the tiny gaps of a wintertime fleece
a paisley studded blanket, wrapped knee-high round niece. 

running tubes from great maple: palsied cold saps
berry's blood ulcer pours like paint with no cap
from a bucket it spills: unravels, unwraps.
It splashes my feet then runs red and abrupt;
silvery and smooth, sanguis from a cup.