Fresh from ritual smog,
gather round the pagan square.
Brick upon his last words
Carved onto the mud puddle clear
as the sacrifice kisses farewell to him:
“Your eyes glitter like steel stars
That orbit around my earth all time.
Glance your infrared lights to this human shell,
My love, you are and reflect sun’s warmth onto skin.
When elders in suits have gone senile,
Let acid tears in your hair, orange as the noon sky,
Burn brightly, a supernova they won’t forget!”
The sun shone silently on the placid puddle.
Once a mirror to his vermillion hair and stinging sweat,
That now smokes sweetly,
Untouched to skies, with his companion
and other golden vessels on
the 54th floor, that chant and ignite before
gods of screens and clothes.
She invites you to the bar,
(Human holograms already faded away)
On top of iron planks,
She perches there, raven skirts and
Cyan hair flying in sultry;
Free from once ferocious fans,
She sighs her binary birdsong here.
Cracking here, airy whisper there,
(Though deep inside, every molecule of his shatters,
Oscillating back and forth to the pendulum of her sound)
She stops. The mildewed stage
Echoes, never reaching the cupola, while he raptures.
Viva Voce! And with that,
They drink away; Her on faux images of soda
And him on her
As she emits static tears on him.
From forgotten fans, musicians and numbers
“Clutch through my airy skin
And grant it this from the abyss: