High Numbered Low

What gives?

All around 

the avenues 

of the high

numbered low,

shop windows 

are white spot lit

and filled with flutes

from magnums 

of Veuve Clicquot.

Capped smiles

and fuck me pumps,

watchband nuggets

and stud cufflinks;

they're having a party

like the people of Oran

in Camus' Plague.

"The best protection 

against infection

is a 

good bottle of wine."

Further up the avenues

the money thins out

and the sidewalk

is limpet mined

with smoking battered wives

and meth dealers.

The party 

moves indoors

among the 

presence 

of the living

forgotten.

Here,

the galleries of subculture

are filled 

with fresh works,

top subterraneans,

and red keg cups.

What's all this then?

The newsprint ink

on every daily edition

runs right downhill

and everywhere 

they're all burning 

the big electric light

white hot tonight.