And he folded his knees and sat
under the long metal poles of power lines,
his sinister black trench coat soaked by the rain,
his dark black thoughts drowned
like his running mascara
by a talentless rumble.
Where is the lightning?
How can we write without the lightning?
So he takes his razor blade and cuts his pale flesh
like so many before him,
scratches pain and depression into words on tapered paper
with an axe and a crane with a wrecking ball
...and laughs his trendy little laugh,
and thinks of how no one ever wrote poetry under power lines
in the raging rain.
Well no one ever writes poetry on power lines either,
so consider this a tribute
to everything we've forgotten.