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* * *
"It was probably a bad move," I say, and even as I say this I can see the seams in the walls. Lycanthropes. "They're being weaponized," he whispers, and then the robots descend on him. Razor sharp buzz-saws. Cloaks and hangmen. "BRING THE GALLOWS!" shout the onlookers, but no gallows are brought. There is just you, and me, and them, and him, and he's being slaughtered with a machine precision and they're being brainwashed by television. "It was a good move," you say, and you and I, we're eating fried tomatoes covered in chocolate and reviewing the tattered paperback works of Friedrich Nietzsche on a seaside balcony. In the hotel room we can still hear the buzzing and clicks of the beetles as they scavenge through our wastes. These are the end times. "When you proposed to me," you say, "did you use Pandora's Box to hold the ring?" And, looking at you, I can only think. Because of course I did. Is there any better way to bring down the universe than with or love? "Yes," I reply. "I opened it to put the ring in, and I opened it to have you take the ring out, and I opened it this morning to see if anything was left." Below us, the cars are crashed and the people are dead. Below us, crows are eating out the dead's eyes. You're looking at me, watching me cry. It's sweet, because I never meant for it to all go this way. It's sweet, because this is too much, more than I planned, but you're still in love. Maybe moreso. "Persephone was found the other day," you say. "I saw her body. No one else thinks it was her, but I knew." And I look at you, drinking my coffee. The beetles are louder, probably reproducing. Probably feeding. "We're going to have to jump off of this," I say to you, and they are down there, watching us. "We're going to have to risk that." You look down at them, and at his dessicated corpse, and at the robots cutting it still into smaller bits. Soon he'll be small enough to put in a cereal box and feed back to the rest of them. "Persephone, she was shooting heroine and didn't save him," I say, pointing at him. The robots are eating him or something. "I figured he was going to die. He fell off the edge of the world, you know." You're looking at me again, saying, "This is amazing." I'm looking at you now, thinking, "You're amazing." But what I ask you is "Are you ready to jump?" And you jump. And you fall. And I jump. And I fall. And together, we are in bliss before we confront them. Before we have to look them in the eyes. Because, they know I did it, that we did it. Because they know that we tested our love to the strongest degree and we won, and they are mad because they will never, could never do it. They are not as good as we are, and yet, we still want to be more than we are.
* * *
Booming, echoing. "My well is deep and black." Persephone looks one way and then the other, and she is across the street like that. A flash, a wonder, a beauty, a goddess, a girl. Trains under. Trains below. Trains bellow. Bellowing below. The illusionist is disaffected, and the affectionist is disillusioned. Both are worried. A gun goes off; brilliant report. Light up the night. He's hanging from the edge, and all she can think to do is wrap a cord around her arm and tap until her veins show. He's screaming, "You've got to pull me up!" and she's pulling the cord tighter with her teeth while her free hand pulls a syringe from her pocket. The precipice crumbles. He falls. She's sticking a needle in her arm and sighing in relief, deciding what to do about the boy who was on the ledge, and he's caught by the wind. Swept to infinity. Trains come from the subways and fly off into space. An ogre, drunk, stumbles into the scene. "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," it says, and rips Persephone into two pieces. Meanwhile, cats learn to caw. Somewhere, a bird grows a paw. The people just stand and stare from the balcony of their 1940's apartment buildings, and the cars whistle on past. The edge of the world is here, and they don't see it. The boy is in some other time. A bomb goes off. "Four drummers drumming." Is that how it goes? Far off, a train whistles. The boats are sinking. I can see golems drowning in lakes and you are talking about shopping. The glass breaks. The monster escapes. From under your bed, an arm reaches out, and for one split instant you think of the arms in prize machines at shopping malls and department stores, the ones where you never win the teddy bear or the candy or the ring, and then you see it for what it is: a slimy, tentacled, clawed stinger, a metallic talon on a lanky membranous limb. The digits are falling off. The covers are up to your chin, and you are as close to the center of the bed as is possible. The precipice crumbles. This is the end of the world/time/universe. This is it. You aren't ready. The boy isn't ready. Persephone in purgatory isn't ready. The starlight drips down from the sky, and you drink it from your crystal champagne glasses like it's cheap wine; quickly, without tasting it. Flowers are made from scorpion stings, now. Deadly but beautiful. It's done. The arms strikes. Somewhere, a baby dies. Somewhere, I'm skinning animals. Somewhere, a rape is being planned. This is it. You aren't ready. Are you ever?
Current Location:
House.
Current Mood:
Silent.
Current Music:
One Ring Zero.
* * *
With out a ripple
Beneath their honey surface
In his eyes I rest
* * *
Sol through stained glass.
The heavy ocean above us
Muting the cogs
That move machines,
Move them against the night.
They catch her
To lay her secrets bare;
Let us escape from her grasp,
So cold and velveteen.
Escape Luna's striking gaze;
Live with our machines
With out mystery or fear.
* * *
I'm feeling green
as someone once said
Walking alone, thinking
Wishing poetry would
compose itself in chalk
beneath my feet
The trees standing like good friends
sillouetted against the morning
perfect halos about them
Passing gardens of my childhood
meandering messes of gardens
Baby's tear hugging the earth
Down one of my even streets
Here I know
Everything is green now
Here at the beginning of all things
* * *
* * *
Foul smell of dried roses
Tepid next to the sharp rock
and crashing sea spray
of my dream
Seemingly touring
the old love's iris
Deep blue against deeper
Striking sea spray,
Again against those deathly rocks
Hand in hand with the new
Then an cliff eroding beneath me
The last too the top
Barefeet on the cold concrete stairs
Water beneath and around
an angry sea
Then the taste of sea spray on him
Now here, warm and clean
Alone with my roses
* * *
An unscratchable itch
murmuring; whispering at the edge
of their existence
* * *
Neon night lights burning like fireflies on the waterfront.
Deep red glow feeds the eyes ethereal light.
Sparks of movement in a ghostly shade like camera blur.
Lens to the sky, a silvery glint from imperceptible starlight.
Blacking out the white lines, caress like asphalt.
Sweating dirty knees.
Firefly luminosity converging in pupils with irises as insect wings.
Intricate natural filigree seen in microscopic view.
Kisses for foreheads, kisses for the sky.
Running for the sheer exuberance, catching a breath and catching rays of light, entwined in your fingers like cat's cradle. Run forever, endless night.
Through gleaming corridors of scales, through machine garden ever in minscule motion.
Robot girl, fall in love.
Thin sheet of glass between earthly and eternal.
Fall in love with the universe, with shooting star dieties and life's slow spiral.
Crying black streaks for all the beauty in the world.
For melancholic reveries and innocence gently unraveled.
For the heavens untouchable above.
* * *
A girl of incalculable age,
Perhaps very young,
Slithers across mattress
With muffled paws and half smile,
Graceful in lack of grace.
Lithe limbs and slender fingers
That touch skin like ten feathers.
A red lipped kiss that burns
Implanted on ponderous boy
On golden blue afternoon.
* * *
Surrealism in nature;
Abstract beauty.
So far in the future,
What future might bring.

A link between strangers
Reminds of what's past,
But thoughts bring great danger,
The burial fast.

Such a cold heat,
Unknown to my earth,
But not heat in the least,
More upbeat than our dirge.

* * *
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