At the corner of desolation and despair is a man sitting down on the downtrodden sidewalk. The dust of snow blows off the tops of our skeleton city. Eastern Standard Time encompassing walking briefcases, manifold mandibles collapsing on each other with a cigarette burning in between.
Thoughts swimming through membrane channels. Cancerous carcinogens exhaled. Nicotine stained esophagus. Crushed like elevators falling from the top floor to musky basement deathbeds. The sun is recycling itself. Inside these eyes are perceptions. The world and events unfold all around me. The colors contrast and there is surreal light.
Two lovers embrace as if it is the last time. Bodies entwined. Fingers running through hair like bodies in wax museums. Chemicals rush like mercury in thermometers. The wind blows and a leaf of the fall still holds on for dear life. It is as if this has happened over and over and over again.
Meanwhile in another place.
Hand and hand the social lepers march to and fro on this lonely isle. Their hands resemble chains. Their fashions are chastity belts. To be a part of the group is the disease, although the disease is the key.
Fire escapes on the sides of buildings exist in case someone needs to escape. Fires will burn bright and start everything anew. A rose sits in a vase, so slender and beautiful. Yet abrasive and sharp.
They don't last so long these days. They are easy to replace with a new one. Like torrid love affairs that burn bright and fade out so quickly with nothing but soft char.
There is history amongst us everywhere. Each moment there is life as well as death. You can feel this all around you. So many lives have been lived in so many ways. With the same social order of the species. The kings still try and live on top of the world but only with a birds eye view of these lives.
To be the fire of life is to immerse yourself in the gasoline and light the match.