We stand at the crux, the crossroad. Looking sideways; down the elongated stretch of path, a chasm of jaundice light scratches the night, as the chain gang marches, falteringly towards us, deep with exhaustion, from long hours in the gold mines. Moonlight would glint on their tools, yet the sky is overcast with vapours we cannot see. On the horizon the tower blocks soar, rising through the deep set clouds, hanging on the edge of cliffs; Their foundations undermined by the rush of
waves, It is perilous and sexy –
“Strike once more Poseidon!”
It could be that the wind, having roused itself from intermittent engagement with its chore of the day (to breeze) has whipped through the whisps of strangled air for the one necessary moment to bear out a cry. The chain gangers would hear it yet their ears ring with the sound of the mine, the clanging of instruments, the deep set breath of decay that clamours through the warped caves.
The Earth is dark tonight,
Dark all nights
But tonight it is scorched.
The dirt is charred,
And ashes of nature litter small bones of animals.
An infant has been left on a hillside for the dogs,
Once trained and now rabid with rejection,
Who raise it as their own;
Perhaps to found a new Rome,
Or to let it grow so then to devour it at a later date,
An investment for the pack.
Lightning strikes the bristling white horses which ride the seas, stirring the waters into electric light. Orchestral voices brought by the frisson in the rain which crescendos above the subway blocks as it strikes the sheet metal. Rust creeps along recently new bridges, skating as tendrils of a cancerous growth into the steel. Real life seems far behind; left at the crossroads where we turned away from the path the chain gang was returning from, and followed back the way we came; In the hope for some familiarity.
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