clouds over an anonymous somewhere

a long one.

punch-drunk clouds dangle like

cigar smoke from a wire

over an anonymous somewhere

streets and highways kiss and embrace like cement lovers

they run, holding hands, through the heart and lungs of downtown

a butcher stands apart from it all on a moss-covered sidewalk

thinking it smells like a bad romance novel

flipping and tossing his knives above his head

gray-brown moustache twitching

there is a holiness there, an art that

seldom rears its wrinkled head

you could call it arrogance but

in reality it is something else entirely

the meaning of which artists and god have fought over

for decades now

the heralds sing of it and monks taste of it

in their palates

the insides of their cheeks

they run their leather tongues along the insides of their throats

but cannot find it

for in this city the monks are bankers and the darkness is god

a permeating god that huddles inside veins and alleyways
in between teeth and lock and key

the men fear it but the women lust for it

they crave it with watering eyes and a slowing pulse

and this desire builds in the cigar-smoke clouds

the ones that hang like a demon child's mobile

they swell and impregnate themselves

it is a vile asexual thing

but before a word is spoken, the rain comes

leaking out of the cracks and holes of the clouds like saliva

it tumbles like a suicide

creates a ubiquitous mess

and the people begin to wail

a banker ducks under a newspaper while

a woman earnestly tears off her clothes and

throws them over a stoplight, and they are left hanging there like

an old man's testicles

the butcher on the sidewalk looks up at the sky

and inevitably a raindrop dives head first into his tub of a pupil

he screams, more in surprise than anything

and lets the knives fall

they hit the pavement like singing asteroids

reflecting the same image four times over

there are some nuances amongst the separate scenes

but in the end they are without god

and as they settle to the ground, still humming

teardrops gather on the edges of their blades

but the rain washes them away

as the darkness hangs eternal

in the tobacco sky

Author's Note

A very long one by my standards.

Reviews

[Roary]

This is very beautiful and 'for in this city the monks are bankers and the darkness is god' i could write a whole thing just inspired by this line. I like that it full circles adn that you use the freedom of the smoke to mold the images from start to end. Forgive the nerd in me but i feel like i'm in gotham city when i read this .

[Raven Starhawk]

Powerful and ultimately intelligent piece of work.

[Emily B]

how old did you say you are?

are you sure you aren't channeling some older, harder poet?

[Helena]

Wonderful images at every twist and turn. Very well done, I can't praise this piece enough!

[Kenneth The Poet]

This piece earned a fave, because you described an apocalyptic scenarios with knives dropping and reflecting the images of being dropped back to the owner of the knives. This is an insane piece of work and by that I mean brilliant.