By Peter Magliocco

Neon signs don’t color any
young brothers on the Strip tonight
sweltering nearby electric pods
a flesh currency multiplies in
seized numbers of identity
as hell’s jackpot awaits.
Always the wandering detritus
populating the streets
in trashy voluminous splendor
tarnished by life’s imprint,
we sidle across it all
to reach the other side
of namelessness.
Some call it instant anonymity,
a way to sneak into the casinos
& wrangle the lucky money
to wave glorious banners,
(as a revelation of worth
cutting through deception’s bone).
We’ll maul those wavering lies
demeaning our urban rappers
who spin venomous odes
in the colorless night!
There will be gangland gore
with DNA’s jagged bones
before priceless organs are seized
& transplanted into the corpses
of ruling class golfers
with imported body parts
& bottles of dead men’s sperm
to sell at markdown prices
on the dark web.
O to eat these thoughts
as balm beyond starving gamblers
picketing the Trump Tower
before selling their souls
for Ivanka’s kiss!
Peter Magliocco writes from Las Vegas, Nevada, where he occasionally edits the lit-zine ART:MAG. Recently nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net in poetry, he has had work in GREENSILK JOURNAL, DEGENERATE LITERATURE, WHISPERS, JELLYFISH WHISPERS, POETRY LIFE AND TIMES, and elsewhere. His latest poetry book is Poems for the Downtrodden Millennium.

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