Pitchforks and Horns

The gust was hot enough
to know it blows from the manhole
below. Steam like fog like blur
the sharp details of liquid crystal
displays behind the shop’s large glass
window. Eyelashes clash closed
on mannequin faces witnessing
this emergence from the abyss
to the atmosphere. No control
of what to happen after standstill.
Skyscrapers like mechanical fingers
like syringes injecting the night,
infecting with stars, the fumes
underground. The city with its birds
and their shadows staying on their nests.
The world on surveillance, on how the hell
there’s no need for a staircase piercing to heaven.

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