The Urban Wanderer: A Lament
Urban Wanderer
In the mute scream of city,
I shut my mind’s closet,
seek comfort, warmth in the Lord,
and wait for my heart-vault to open.
A road-driver, I thought this,
with a Jeep of torn speakers,
blaring electro, longing
for a hot hall of sex-dance.
On these nights, it was custom
to seize love, to kiss the necks
of tipsy strangers, custom
not to speak, just move, move.
No language now, nothing
but the dance-beat’s distortion.
O, let the strict, steel vault
twangle through my belly.
And so the melody prattles
a machine of sour diamonds.
My hot flesh burns like spice:
yet still, the code’s unbroken.
Now, cleansing with sweat and liquor,
night tucks me in on pavement.
I chant, We were not made for this;
our bodies cannot contain this.
In morning, he treads on, scouring
for some Garden of Eden.
He knows that all is well
when he speaks and heaven hears.
© 2010 Constantine Kulakov
