Matt Bailey: PISS OFF DANTE. URBAN(E) SON OF A GUN

Rotting pigeon on Chicago’s longest road.
Worse of all, it’s Monday on Western Avenue.
Looks a bit like you lost them authentic feelings,
haven’t you?
Lightly laboring for the weekend, but when she comes;
The inheritance of Friday night takes all of her.

Dirty old world pie filling, it’s going nowhere again,
No more getting that odious Monday morning;
No pretty in death, just a little guts,
but mostly they bored me;
26.2 miles of understated monotony, piles of credit cards,
Probably going to miss the two kids or,
the one car in the two car garage and,
seeing black boys on the Green Line.

Melt the wings. Loki did his mother-fucking thing,
See you later, their savior has deserted,
Their mamma looks great in her burka,
See their plain expressions;
Riding the moving stairway to their next destination,
But please don’t follow; they’ll lead you to nowhere, not trouble.

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