brunswick st blues
Brunswick St
sits like the continental shelf just below morality
rain washes the bad scenes
off the street
the killers still get the air
for free
yet upon the working girls
the evil shadows linger
while the decision-makers bottle the blood
and facelift the Valley
Voodoojack waits at the end of Brunswick St
like some kind of licorice addict;
paved bitumen runs straight into his mouth,
congested with exhaust fumes
and scummed in the beard of night
whistling through blackened teeth
like some patron saint of the red-light militias
that perpetuate the Brunswick St blues tune
a black singing snake gripped by the neck—