A tumbling
slagheap. Briggflatts
if briggflatts meant nothing.
Sulphurous mud and
electrical wiring. Three
fourths the food needed.
Hiring the antecedents,
and then killing them
so matriculation comes
with attrition and slogs
deep.
And there is a ring there,
if it has not returned to
the earth yet (who knows
these days) as nutriment
for the dead soil. Nitrates
and iron.
Scarletina caked in with
where the grass is hard
packed into something
flammable.
Deflation ensued
the excess, for something
like twenty-five years. Yes
the casing seemed slack
over the cylindrical limbs
of boyhood flopping about.
(They were clothing to
keep the cold out and
animus in. That was a hard
fought thing!)
See, gnatsfluff and a can
of aerosolized water for
cleaning off, but leaving
left.
Wesh revenue, waning.
Lush avenue, raining,
virulent microbial growth
on the concrete pileons.
(Wouldn't've thought
they'd make it through
the wastelanding but
did, with fungal aplomb!)
Wish for a current in the dust.
Flash
of living in the dust.
Tidal pools of dust. And
wallow slower. Luddlow,
'till the stoking made of
somnolence was.
What would've insulated
now radiates, which is the
opposite.
Duff that, Cannery!
That there is a transparent
vein in the earth, of magicalness,
that was a nature once.
Cavernous marble amphitheater
carved of water, make nice.
The water underneath
this place is brackish, but
potable.
Nope: boy will too. You
bought a new pair of shoes
and then he bought one.
This jaunt across is fit
for way-early renaissance
heraldry. He indeed wears
a maroon blouse and a
dark velvet waistcoat.
Stark metal things
shining in rubble and ashes.
Mr. Darcy and Mr. Mister talking
art in the parlor that now is
dross—literal and ash camps.
I wish there was a holding
hands part, but there isn't.
