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Loud, subaltern city streets, |
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bellies wild with discontent; |
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tall, glass buildings, where we meet |
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watching classes in descent. |
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Whoever made these robot angels, |
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made these urban trash crustaceans; |
|
they occupy the same streets, |
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and we fill the day with locusts and magazines. |
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Just south of here, utopia |
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for sixty bones, euphoria |
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they're keeping cartoon main streets lit. |
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And all these puppet cultures learn |
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every first world has a third; |
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only love escapes this glass metropolis. |
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Now information without flesh |
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means your body's just a drive, |
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loading up with life and death: |
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the after-human has arrived. |
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Melancholy and relief |
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for the things we never know, |
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a constellation of defeat |
|
in this sidewalk shadow show |
|
Whoever made these robot angels, |
|
made these urban trash crustaceans; |
|
they occupy the same streets, |
|
and we fill the day with locusts and magazines. |
|
Just south of here, utopia |
|
for sixty bones, euphoria |
|
they're keeping cartoon main streets lit |
|
And all these puppet cultures learn |
|
every first world has a third; |
|
only love escapes this glass metropolis. |
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Let your eyes go |
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To Llano |
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Out the window |
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To the last maypole |
