France Burning

Clichés des Banlieues – Fourteen Prosaic Alexandrines

I couldn’t teach my grandmother, not even if
life's ordinary oppression hadn’t blown her
away before I had the chance to blow an egg.
A blown egg is an empty ovoid, blown blown, void
void. The egg that came last because nothing followed.
It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good
and the big old bastard Nobody is out there
blowing bad. I'll just blow out these words so they can
tell you about my grandmother’s ordinary
oppression then. Nobody will just walk across
these bridges when he gets to them, and all those eggs
that have lain together in the basket so long
will blow right through the cataclysm of denial.
Here are the twelve syllables running from the smell.

PSR