Cadence in the courtyard is playing the marionette. Justice Smolder laughs criminally in the back of the pub, snorting sawdust and drinking tears with the youngest capgun goons. and you’re in the midst, sitting pretty like a fly in a golden flame. sores crawl from your eyelids to make sight. camcorder masterpieces set to the score of apathy.
on slow nights you turn the road to glass and canvass the streets with burlap intentions. the ghouls in your dreams float through your projector and superimpose the image in front of you. clarity is a tangent, memory a long-removed sliver.
topiary rats swarm steel buildings like piranha leaving only mulch behind. the skyscape clouded over in exhaust clears to show the hole of negative light. fingernails tapping their normal tempo of impatience, muted and corralled. the mother-city, put to rest, breathes even and serene without you.
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