"From the indigo straits to Ossian's seas, on pink and orange sands
washed by the vinous sky, crystal boulevards have just arisen and
crossed, immoderately inhabitedby poor young families who get their
food at the green grocers. Nothing rich-the city." Arthur Rimbaud
The old man sleeps with his weeping. Another old one pauses with her
cats on a fire escape while nursing a sore like a precious stone. A
garbage can is an herbivore grazing on stalks of ringworm. Vermin are
the pool sharks of this brothel polishing off the tenements' fur lined
rails.
At last, the skid of tires tears a hole in the river bank. Sand-fleas
and blowflies become nightriders marauding a new turf of godzilla cars.
An urchin dangles his stolen wristwatch like a fish in a bottle while
shoals of centipedes make a beeline in a poseidon stampede. Filthy rags
are prayer cakes left over from the last sabbat and become holed
coffins for those still searching for involvement.
Islands drift into protoplasm atolls as the city stalks itself.
Cockroaches are the plumbers of eternity. Rapid fire legs sidestep the
etchings of industrious ants while silverfish are the boatmen trouncing
human oars. Living is a Stegasorous swinging its tail.
Scraps are inviting guests as insects lord over a habitat free of
blight and homuncular stain.