Skyline

The serpent spent at the outskirts of town,
his Sistine belly, bottle-nosed,
defending the nastiness of the age,

singing, I’ve lost my skins, I’ve lost my ass,
a hymen falling silently from the sky,
the sky which opposed nature.

The championship of poetry
won by the brown poet,
lifeguard and cheerleader of shit

no one else would dare touch
for fear they might appear in arrears.
Black smoke rose from the skyline,

assumed a shape all smoke assumes.
A car with no doors
stopped to pick up the quietness you sought.