These Streets

Oh, these streets are lined with sin;
they cobble down the stairs of Hell
and spin into the depths of Hades' shell.
They lick their lips in a fervour;
desire sips into their veins of drizzling water.
(pounding, pounding, rain is pounding the stones,
pounding the cobblestone streets in desperation)
Yes, it is sin, sin in these streets.
There is lust and ardour, worn like
cigarette smoke which wafts through the stone path.
These streets rise and fall, like a breathing ribcage
(or a dead one - each rib the rise and
each sunken gap of skin inbetween the fall).
These streets taper and broaden like pursing lips.
locked in a deadly, drugged embrace.
Yes, it is sin, sin in these streets -
Such sin that one becomes a saint in comparison
when they simply cast their eyes
on these hell-bent cobbles (these poisonous stones).
Saints who, still, worship the streets with holy palms
and holy lips; holy breaths and holy lips - 
for these streets are alive with desire. They
sing in harmony with every touch of every saint,
and this song is a saint's siren call.
This song is a sinner's song in a sinner's street - 
and yes, it suits me so well. Doesn't it?

The End

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