nightmare alley
Posted: April 29th, 2008, 10:50 pm
I walk upon the gravel of an alley dimly lit,
nameless and dead ending
a repository of the discarded
empty cans, broken bottles,
half-eaten meals,
offerings, ambrosial sacrifices
to minor and deposed deities.
the wolflings wail in feral appreciation,
their padded footsteps, cautious
upon the black ice.
I am not seen, I am not heard,
I am not missed
as I stalk my own memories
into the Byzantine quarter, with alleys
snaking into the underpass,spilling
into the labyrinth, with sub-levels
and cul de sacs
trench coat peddlers,
swarthy and cunning, hawking
exotic hot flesh corruption,
sisters of a lesser past
tearless vague smiles,
something's missing...
as you hang a left-hand turn into
necrotic landscapes, city park badlands
with roving reaver packs that know you
by the scent on a first name basis,
asking for a light or the time
as you blackout, blackjacked off
into a night of flickering incandescence,
half-gassed neon
big top revival,
three-ringed preachers
speaking in tongues,
a plastic concave bowtied Jesus
whose hypno-swirling eyes follow you
no matter where you go
no matter who you are,
klaxon hosannahs - maudlin prayers,
as you hide behind the fizzing
bubble bath baptismal, escaping
as they double-cross their hearts to God...
things are not as they appear to be, but
when was it any different
when was that a problem
another midnight in Avignon,
face sharpened women
stares fixated, frozen caryatids,
pillars of potential salt
to cure man's flesh
staving off the inexorable decay
that comes, in those
late and fleeting hours, that pass
from one night to another -
like the secret handshake of gods,
cunning and perpetual,
their thunderous laugh
as the lightning strikes
nameless and dead ending
a repository of the discarded
empty cans, broken bottles,
half-eaten meals,
offerings, ambrosial sacrifices
to minor and deposed deities.
the wolflings wail in feral appreciation,
their padded footsteps, cautious
upon the black ice.
I am not seen, I am not heard,
I am not missed
as I stalk my own memories
into the Byzantine quarter, with alleys
snaking into the underpass,spilling
into the labyrinth, with sub-levels
and cul de sacs
trench coat peddlers,
swarthy and cunning, hawking
exotic hot flesh corruption,
sisters of a lesser past
tearless vague smiles,
something's missing...
as you hang a left-hand turn into
necrotic landscapes, city park badlands
with roving reaver packs that know you
by the scent on a first name basis,
asking for a light or the time
as you blackout, blackjacked off
into a night of flickering incandescence,
half-gassed neon
big top revival,
three-ringed preachers
speaking in tongues,
a plastic concave bowtied Jesus
whose hypno-swirling eyes follow you
no matter where you go
no matter who you are,
klaxon hosannahs - maudlin prayers,
as you hide behind the fizzing
bubble bath baptismal, escaping
as they double-cross their hearts to God...
things are not as they appear to be, but
when was it any different
when was that a problem
another midnight in Avignon,
face sharpened women
stares fixated, frozen caryatids,
pillars of potential salt
to cure man's flesh
staving off the inexorable decay
that comes, in those
late and fleeting hours, that pass
from one night to another -
like the secret handshake of gods,
cunning and perpetual,
their thunderous laugh
as the lightning strikes
