In the dark you can't tell what color her eyes are, but you know they're blue, the bluest of blues - hidden behind lenses and crystal clear. Find the right kind of eyes and it's obvious you're just an animal; find the right pair and you won't know what hit you until you're backed up into a corner, teeth bared hackles raised in an ape rictus. You? feel the shiver up your limbs. A predator/prey empathy that blurs yourher pronouns - does the mouse feel the satisfaction of the owl as its own skin is turned over-under? It's a motor neuron thing.
It's dark, not the dark of caves but the dark of the city seventeen floors above the street and ten thousand feet below the streetlight bounce. We face her(s) on the only carpeted floor of the anthracite city, sit in the only two chairs out here under the sky so close that it feels like [you] could reach up and knock on it, surrounded.
I say, [you] don't want this to end. "On the one cloud of the roofs." She hits them in the face, a hard rap-knuckled sound and the falling to the floor sounds like the ripping of shag carpeting. I don't want to be stupid about this, inane here, obtuse about that; this or that or by the by - everyone intelligent enough gets maimed by a fall.
She [they] says, This is now. Don't worry about later.
There is always a part [thou, art] that is an historian, who plays the part of the pedant, who looks at the pieces of the past as lexicon and scapularum, that imagines a misinterpreted face with a map precognited upon it - . Glances or a furtive clutch of the arm as a sign from before of what would come later. Those years ago and what didn't happen as a key to what did, in fact, come to pass; the ghost of they [me] at your side during your heartache, pulling the pieces of the future from my mouth, walking beside you on the streets of your filthy metropolis.
A jackal-headed god from the sands of an ancient civilization - a wary and clever hero of the desert. [Thou, thee, art, you] we(e) die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, the nameless faces of our barren deserts blown into a passing trajectory. Yet, relaxing, float to the bottom. There were nameless lovers in the past, forgotten the same as nameless tribes who wandered the waterless places and left nothing but their bones under the dry earth.
Somewhere there is one who remembers. Everywhere else are those who forget.
It's dark, not the dark of caves but the dark of the city seventeen floors above the street and ten thousand feet below the streetlight bounce. We face her(s) on the only carpeted floor of the anthracite city, sit in the only two chairs out here under the sky so close that it feels like [you] could reach up and knock on it, surrounded.
I say, [you] don't want this to end. "On the one cloud of the roofs." She hits them in the face, a hard rap-knuckled sound and the falling to the floor sounds like the ripping of shag carpeting. I don't want to be stupid about this, inane here, obtuse about that; this or that or by the by - everyone intelligent enough gets maimed by a fall.
She [they] says, This is now. Don't worry about later.
There is always a part [thou, art] that is an historian, who plays the part of the pedant, who looks at the pieces of the past as lexicon and scapularum, that imagines a misinterpreted face with a map precognited upon it - . Glances or a furtive clutch of the arm as a sign from before of what would come later. Those years ago and what didn't happen as a key to what did, in fact, come to pass; the ghost of they [me] at your side during your heartache, pulling the pieces of the future from my mouth, walking beside you on the streets of your filthy metropolis.
A jackal-headed god from the sands of an ancient civilization - a wary and clever hero of the desert. [Thou, thee, art, you] we(e) die containing a richness of lovers and tribes, the nameless faces of our barren deserts blown into a passing trajectory. Yet, relaxing, float to the bottom. There were nameless lovers in the past, forgotten the same as nameless tribes who wandered the waterless places and left nothing but their bones under the dry earth.
Somewhere there is one who remembers. Everywhere else are those who forget.