division street is queer tonight and seeming still with siren lullabies where paving stone pillows once gave brittle faces a stage for whiskey dreams and the west village Villon crammed hands in pockets and let loose wisps of steamy breath and smoke the specter of the suicidal clown all stumbling junkie flannery with naked words spilling out like blood from wounds haunts the dives tonight while self professed neo-bohemians slurp beer from cans and pat passionate backs bon follastre held at arm’s length now trampled by baby carriages helmed by bottle-blondes this used to be the center, albeit a sickly one hell was born here, and borne out in plodding rhythms by golden arms but division street is queer tonight and seeming still with opium vapors and siren lullabies