Night fell across the dead city like
Vultures in ghosted rhapsodies;
A bruised fugue of torn gravity, vicious
& ruined (out of tune, out of time

out of temptation). A hung cruciform
Of roofscape wastelands slick w/ fungus:
A biting chorus en masse.
The streets coagulated into impromptu
Flesh perspectives of shadowy, violent shapes
While feral cats & sewar rats pissed
Shadows more beautiful than pain,
Across the subterranean stained tracks,
More sensitive than half-twisted
Half-written haikus-
There is an unsettling discordance
Below the dark streets, a lunatic
Anatomy of convuluted clockwork sketches,
Where hells breathe the torturous disfigurments
Of bone-jazzed resonances.

"Speak and I'll crush your eyes,"
Such is the physiognomy of the pornographic.
Yet you can find anything in the dark city,
As the city makes things happen.
"You can find your way anywhere."
And imagination is the last corner
Of the dead-end hotels.

(and she arrives naked in the
holographic flick...)
This is the necropolis of
Our blood eyes; the exposed darkness
Waiting like empty coffin beds-
(her nervous liquid eyes
reflections of neon sound)

Drowned hotels mirrored down
In the symphony of gun-grey beauty
In the recycled fragments of
Flesh holograms & illegal infinities

Beneath the doll's swollen headeyes (bleeding);
And beneath the arcane opalescent nacre
Of the dead moon's scars where our
Hearts become nothing more

Then dirty laundry; crackling relationships
of nanosecond passions for a postmodern
subAmerican uber urban culture
Of gomi gardens & decomposed stars-
No place dark enough behind her masked
& mascaraed eyes;
a stretched skyline of bright concrete

Jungles; flushed over these mean streets-
These tortured avenues of unveiled prostitute
Atmosphere: disingenous engines of filth
Dripping burdens lurid & with knives;
Nervous eroticism.

How can we smile in this luminous amnesia,
Our throats soaked in virtual lights &
Burning chromes, this translucent city
Of darkness; almost gone. Dead.
Bruised ghosts...
(you see her like a membrane sculpture,
patterns of light laminated into recognition

and synthesized steam: an animated logo: who waits for
her now?)

How soon the azure dogs howl
To rent our restless drunken plagues,
In this cobblestone mirror
Of our porno house movie shows?

The sky aluminum at the filmic end
Of the western world.
"Is it solid?"
"I'd rather not know."
Another flight.
Another hotel.
Another dead city...
('She was nothing like that', Gibson had said,
of the Idoru)
And now her eyes met his. The algorithmically
features of curved geometries gone blue dusk;
A distant silver river... down into
Another imaginary country.

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