And the last thing they will see

 I have spots of darkness inside
and they smell bad,
a reflection of the world's aftertaste, 

I guess.

 I am wind-strewn light rubbish

the kind that clings to shrubbery

like it wants to live forever

and put down roots, a stable job, you know.

 You can't smell death in summer

but it still walks a few steps

behind you, on the scorching pavement

hoping to pin down your wings

at a moment's notice.

 White mouth dissolved,

tongue of charcoal, bitter taste

and no clouds to speak of today.

Bright day.

I alone seem to be able to see
the land oozing blood from beneath.

 The advice of thunder

under a starless sky, heed it. 

Increasingly, however,
the already meager thread count of the average day
is getting shorter and darker,
exposing my frail body to the cold outside
which I never knew was that fitfully present
even in the midst of summer.

 I take notes, the key words,

those that go unspoken today,
clean of the touch of the uncouth
and dirty hands.

 Summer still young, 

no news from September in the radar,

and that's a good thing, mostly.

Who really wants to make plans

three months in advance?

 And the last thing they will see

is the lights going black and green
and the cold blasting wind coming
from behind with fury unheard of,
filling the void in every little alley,
tearing it all apart,

waking up the plastic to mindless flight,
with might, greed and grind,

blowing among the ruins of broken utopias,
disheveled, disheartened,
crashing among the bazaar stalls
of a forever fraud future.