From the Gutters

On evenings when there's a little wind around
you drag me through vagabond streets
asking for directions to the gutters where men
sit in close circles to gather the city's filth to
hurl it out into the world above, to startle,
to revert the auld order and watch the world
drenched in its own filth. On such a day, you say,
they'll come out of the gutters and stand laughing
at the stinking faces of the high-rises while their
powerful tenants would retaliate with the burning
of flesh and tell their children that it's mere
cigarette wind that chokes the air. Once again
filth would return to the gutters and the children of
grime would continue to persist in its darkness, in
the madness of the gutters...