Dispatch From SoHo

 Soho 

You wake up on nausea street 

Which divides into five of the same

Nausea streets 

And you see the same faces three

Women obsidian 

Wrapped in black 

And three men announcing 

(Masculinity’s oblivion 

And) the sorry death of Christendom 

And cars that melt into yellow and green

As ambulances bellow of opium deaths 

Like church bells at noon

And the beggars who are prophets

Carry the books of their gods

Announcing your doom

And you look towards the bookstores 

But they sell banknotes 

and bribe you with coffee

The nausea makes your eyes somersault and dizzy 

And all the five nausea streets tumble into one 

And you wake up again on nausea street