In the City

In the City

we are all a corpse,

alone in cedar—

 

walled homes,

but nightly we dance and rave

in these cemeteries bursting

 

with light pollution

lens flare

litter and coffins

 

grinding

against each other at midnite—

in the City

 

we dig our own graves

and scamper

to nail ourselves in(out)

 

from the short blocks

and long alleys

beneath street lights coated

 

in grime, and skies

that will never be clear—

The City is hungry for more

 

yet always full

of life

given off by the dancing

 

corpses who came

because although you cannot see the stars

in the City,

 

the lights will never fade

and in the City

you are allowed to forget

 

death, and life multiplies

quicker than the piling of bodies.

In the City

 

something is bought

through all the lonely struggle

and starless nights, and I see

 

shadows cast by eternal flames

of the dead

in colors, vibrant

 

against the winter sky

of dead skyscrapers and cyclone fence.

Between heaven and earth

 

we find the City—

where night lasts forever

and the sky is a maw

 

eternally opening

foul and smeared tar,

and the corpses

 

swing and dance on—

irreverent

to the blackness closing in—

these eternal flames

burning

and swaying

 

circles—

choreographed

to death and creation

 

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