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Then, we are all lightning
and when we are all lightning
when we are in flight
there is no news.
Darting glances across the cobbled square, deep into one or another, supped slow and full in the growing gloam. We bore the face of hope, all a-smitten with each other's private parts. Lost at the junction of Main and Main, bought out by the Angry Men. We died a while, collapsed in heaps of bodies on the corners. We grabbed at their stars, revealed at last by the passing vendors. We embraced, moiled at each other, hands spoke in the language of the horses: all one or two degrees hotter than Man. And the fumes dissipated. Under the streetlights finally we hear the scraping sounds of the Market, the bones amid the city of the dead. We longed to buy from them: sweet breads and pale flowers, pallid memento mori, quaint keys to sunblasted boxes or well oiled stocks. Stand there, amid the gaping storefronts of Main, the commercing and shusshing of the streets. Buy them buy them buy them from the interstellar women! Bend, softly stepping on every color, every smooth stone fallen into the street from the heavens. Suddenly we were there, amid the softly stepping women in their colorful clothes, the sweating horses and the fumes from the diesel trucks. We gaped and gawked and pawed at ourselves, looking for cigarettes or for excuses. Until at last they came for us, small bags dangling from their yellow fingers.
We hungered then, in the City of the Market of the Dead, for the surety and refinement of our betters. No dawn broke over the street, so we sat down and listened.
and when we are all lightning
when we are in flight
there is no news.
Darting glances across the cobbled square, deep into one or another, supped slow and full in the growing gloam. We bore the face of hope, all a-smitten with each other's private parts. Lost at the junction of Main and Main, bought out by the Angry Men. We died a while, collapsed in heaps of bodies on the corners. We grabbed at their stars, revealed at last by the passing vendors. We embraced, moiled at each other, hands spoke in the language of the horses: all one or two degrees hotter than Man. And the fumes dissipated. Under the streetlights finally we hear the scraping sounds of the Market, the bones amid the city of the dead. We longed to buy from them: sweet breads and pale flowers, pallid memento mori, quaint keys to sunblasted boxes or well oiled stocks. Stand there, amid the gaping storefronts of Main, the commercing and shusshing of the streets. Buy them buy them buy them from the interstellar women! Bend, softly stepping on every color, every smooth stone fallen into the street from the heavens. Suddenly we were there, amid the softly stepping women in their colorful clothes, the sweating horses and the fumes from the diesel trucks. We gaped and gawked and pawed at ourselves, looking for cigarettes or for excuses. Until at last they came for us, small bags dangling from their yellow fingers.
We hungered then, in the City of the Market of the Dead, for the surety and refinement of our betters. No dawn broke over the street, so we sat down and listened.