Manhattana! I hear your spirit's song,
though it’s weak, it shudders me.
Manhattana! How long will
Brooklyn Bridge be the torch
of what was and is to come?
will bleed ears for the lamenting.
Manhattana! your veins of trains
and worn rags of men are crumbling.
Your sun never rises nor sets
but in reflection.
Your birds screech in the ramshackled
steel racket of your mane.
Manhattana! you bastard
born of Jerusalem and Babylon!
Where’s your heart?
I can’t taste it anymore.
Where’s your womb?
Has it turned to dust?
All your poets tore out their eyes long ago!
Their eyes are still alive, and even now, roll together
into a fist that opens and closes on your genitals.
Manhattana! How long can you
bleed your streets overflowing
before your towers fall impotent?
Or are your clumsy spires
already stalactites dripping
into the void?