Like The Bismarck Poem by Robert Rorabeck

At the bottom of the stairs,
An estuary where you can look up and see
The billboards of your souls:
Things that can be sold to survive—
Until the daylight wavers and then goes
Down, down—
Like the Bismarck—and the ninth layer of
Dante's Hell—
Into a frozen liquid place where you can
Only escape through the mouths of
The devils—
As the lonely girls ride upon their Ferris Wheels—
Here is the endless matriculation—
The places that have learned to show off—
Where sunlight and moonlight play
Across the miscegenation's of the graveyards—
And I know I can find you here,
All tied up in your skeleton-
This is no place for a sonnet—but this is
Where the vultures keep the folklores of the yellow
Mule, and the traffics mill like ants—
Like burrows of salted dreams trying to come up
Again into the awful pornographies of
An unholy world.