Boomslang Poetry

New York Triptych

Wall Street

Foul syrupy resin bubbles out of the decking,
beads of sweat glisten on the brow of the hotdog vendor
and the sticky stench of candied peanuts fills the air.

Your white-toothed enthusiasm
and fresh-pressed smile nauseate me.

Green Point

Green paint is peeling away from the walls of the fake
pub and stampless Post Office revealing its true colours.

Immigrants gather for a taste of the old country,
but the cold flow chokes and confuses their memories.


Past the virdigris metro and the baggy bronze goat
though rooms of sombre splashes, Irma Goldmanís
grasping hands reach for her motherís favourite.

Confused by watery dots of green and blue, she makes it to the rotating door, before a hand on her shoulder brings her back.