Collapse at The Water’s Splash

On some grate,
and in that duct,
the sore, the hot and sizzled
cooks with steam –
the where, the was,
the why of
broken ’76 and ’78.

It was confidential pomade
and stunk with blush –
with some fuzzy,
almost freaky bass.

It was the stuff that
toes curl up and animals –
yes those – felt like jumping
in front – for fun.

I was there and felt the urge –
the collapse at the water’s splash.

I think a glistened spark had
lit that fire and howling winds
burned some town, but couldn’t
tell with oily brakes.

Tear and clank, tear and bump
my head – you beautiful –
you bomb; my friend.

2010 Barry Comer

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