New poem, in need of title

Freshly inked, my latest. In need of title.

Also, today’s reading recommendations: Heather O’Neill and Max Blagg (Autobio A Gogo, googlable, can you spot the influence?)

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Hopped off the bus at Central Station
where the junkies winked thru the winters etched on their faces
where I lifted the empty tin of a Berri Square beggar to my ear
& heard the sounds of suicides in the Saint Lawrence river
Red-light Archambault drew me up the street
and the unhatted hustlers sheep-herded me in with Peeping Toms
We clung to our seats & our whiskies & our favourite girls
knowing it was concrete and cold outside
but here the lights shed red roses on our eyes & the dancers’ skin
Lights off. Doors shut. Kicked to the curb like unwanted kids
blowing over the streets discarded burger wrappers lined with grease
I drifted with the taxi cabs upwards St-Denis after they’d dropped the bomb
everyone’s a liar their guts & hearts empty as their coffee cups
eyes desperate as their cocks & cunts & wallets
like Lucy, with whom I traded an eye for a tongue
& we danced til dawn when up the sun sprung
On I went chanting with my new tongue to the foot of the mountain
where the cross was up-hung over me
& Pan played his pan-flute to the laurel tree
Onward and onward til the bars let us in again
danced I & the satyrs past the unfucked and dreary
their jeers and their laughter drove us downstairs
& when they ask me @ home “What do you remember of Montreal?”
The hip of a UdeM girl like the ’90s, on the blue line.