Washed Out


The hangdog drops, they plunge in pure

For fifty feet or so at least,

And plummet to their deaths insured

As they themselves become decreased,

Destruction thus secured.


An impact  would have cleansed the rust

In villas or in bovine barns,

But here like dusting dust with dust

Or bathing blood on banks of Marne

They mingle with their lust.


And pounding at the cellar door,

-Pretty line for sordid matters-

And gushing as a tidal bore

Served from filth and tin can platters

Not now what was before.


A puddle drowned in cigarettes.

I cannot see a blasted inch,

But I can see the TV set

And help endangered sister finch.

To Her I've payed my debt.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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