rock the cash-bar

i saw the falling century
broken culture
(the vandals took the handles)

blurry-eyed old men
who mumbled insensate
when asked, “what is it? what’s the matter?”
in pyjamas
and three days’ beard

i know this late hour
from black and white movies
about the distant future
when not just Earth
but greed stood still

as the garbage can gods
staggered awkward
from their saucers

in the silence you can hear the dance-hall
–not even a fucken a-bomb
can stop the kids (a’ight?)–

and somewhere
jello biafra is born
without a trace of irony

we invoke wrestlers, witch-doctors:
anything to get
ronald reagan
to stop pointing his gun at us

tomorrow night
i go to Maple Leaf Gardens
to watch the Clash

i only know
that for a few more days
i will live forever

– Clay McCann


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