Los Angeles and the defence of angels

Los Angeles and the defence of angels. Ahead
long winter days, street cars.
There's a hole in the second mailbag at Annankatu Post
                                                  Office

and on winter days, dogs
do drillings in the snow,
for nothing, without thanks.
Exalting this life, a poet foams in a café.
After the well-known war novelist
had blitzed himself to death,
he became the first in the trade. I rise
and yell: We shall overcome, yeah.
A ball of slush, like the snowdrop lost in the snow,
in the street, congruent vessels
with rain cloaks on their shoulders, transparent.
I couldn't always bear myself, the artillery fire
against the gist of beauty, cyanide moon, rain, hovering
stage-sets, there comes a point
where I always give up.
Without a memory I came to the world, without a mind
I leave this place, I'm not in the least loyal.
I do not let others pull
the carpet under my feet,
I'll do it myself.

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