Brooklyn Purgatorio (a poem about yesterday)
by Matt Mohun
by Matt Mohun
The fuzzy demon furiously pounds the floor like a war drum
He torments his brother, and wakes his master repeatedly
He flies through the air and bellows out yowls like a possessed savage.
Finally his master wakes, accepting that sleep will not be granted on this grey and gloom filled dawn.
The demons see he has risen and scream at him repeatedly.
They stomp their hooves like manipulative piglets.
The meek one brays like a stubborn old jack ass.
I have slipped into an Animal Farm existence.
The Shmoo demon, now fat and happy,
slowly slips into a rocking chair slumber.
I leave the demons, but I am not free.
I ride my broken steed through this city God had left long ago.
It rains. It does not cleanse though that was meant to be it's purpose.
It simply turns dry dirt wet and sprays it on your face.
I ride through a race of shadows
with mud speckled countenances,
like clocks which stopped ticking long, long ago.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
Anything but this he sobs.
All in all. It's par for the course.
It's Brooklyn Purgatorio.
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