words, words, words

blue mountain, there
the television
runs on coal, the
world bleeds plants
to flame
and the electromagnetic
charms of light
fill the
hollow textbook with
flowers,
like Sylvia, dieing
once more before
the unbearable hands
of adolescence
there, burned in the mists of campfire
songs-
(lets have it then:
pavement and aftershave)
the coins in the mayors pocket
dwindle down to bus fare and
the constituency, you too
become
turnstile jumpers, in the rain
as it pours and pours.