The Road to Nowhere

We were silent in the trams passing by yards fenced in grooved metal our heads a seething pharmacy of bad intentions and good ideas on the road to Nowhere. There was the Temple of Technology made of newspapers, its windows millboard, the tower of matches, and the altar of Industry from which all liquors poured down –The Angels of Odd floated in the air, drinking vodka, biting into the incense of revolution. It smelled like the end of the holiday. Is this a man? Is this a God? But still, Poetry lived there, shedding from the pale intestines of the city. We ran after her, a pack of desperates and expectants, scraping through the ravine of an umbel time –behind the words, where you’re burned out, bathed, forever branded, and from the brand all questions rise!