Flaneur with bomb

Those suras surging through his mind, he walks
about the city.  He longs to be alone
despite the bustle, and a sine qua non.
You would not understand him.  If he spoke, his talk
would feel to you like grabbing an electric
fence.  Why notice him?  The crowd’s a veil
that masks itself and covers him as well.
This is where I’ve come.  This place is sick.
I see the scandalous girls, loose and fast.
I see the blasphemy that masquerades as art.
I witness laws that give succor to fiends.
He walks into the arena.  He stops, he leans.
Oh help me (I will not say your name) to do my part
to blow this city down in one clean blast.

- John Goodman