Metropolis - Faded Paper Figures

Loud, subaltern city streets,

bellies wild with discontent;

tall, glass buildings, where we meet

watching classes in descent.

Whoever made these robot angels,

made these urban trash crustaceans;

they occupy the same streets,

and we fill the day with locusts and magazines.

Just south of here, utopia

for sixty bones, euphoria

they’re keeping cartoon main streets lit.

And all these puppet cultures learn

every first world has a third;

only love escapes this glass metropolis.

Now information without flesh

means your body’s just a drive,

loading up with life and death:

the after-human has arrived.

Melancholy and relief

for the things we never know,

a constellation of defeat

in this sidewalk shadow show

Whoever made these robot angels,

made these urban trash crustaceans;

they occupy the same streets,

and we fill the day with locusts and magazines.

Just south of here, utopia

for sixty bones, euphoria

they’re keeping cartoon main streets lit

And all these puppet cultures learn

every first world has a third;

only love escapes this glass metropolis.

Let your eyes go

To Llano

Out the window

To the last maypole