Witch City

Witch City
Jess Mann
10-16-13

The bricks
give up their shadows
like the last gasps
of a throat garbed in rope
The shadows
feel the same
about their stories.
A grey cloud kneels
perilously close to the city
whose spires
claw at its gossamer questions
like fingernails glossed and chipped
tear at the nylon
over a painted
perfect
face.
Cheeks
hollow as church halls
echo
madly with the
shadows jostling
shoulder to shoulder
for absolution.
The gobble up the history
with erotic moans of bereavement
their entitled cameras
catching and rendering
every secret
every whisper
as firm as bone
as dense as clay
just as ungraceful
as they.
The bricks
reflect the shadows
evil pleasure at
the carnival of popcorn lights
and candy smile eyes
the shadows
draw their hoods back
for the kill.
They crack the necks
of every neon glowstick
every torch
they snuff voraciously
smacking lips
they suck the marrow
from the moon-
And what watery orbs
reflect the delicious hope
of light?
Two eyes
apiece
of naivete
and wonderment
and exposed raw nerve of soul
that crackles like a wire
split and writhing
pure life
half light
the bricks hold fast
their hatred
of the position they are in
a city built of mirrors
packed in red dust
and the spit of false tongues
their spell
forcing them to bear witness
again to the
collected
suffocation
of each
beautiful
flickering
flame.