Dead
of day, but not lost.
Another
summons echoing of
Maquetry
looses the poetiped
Into
freefall, tumbling against
Tesselated
walls as though
Possessed
by falcon's lust.
It's
a matter for slowness
In
repenting, a chasm verged
But
not encroached. Larks are
Fonder
in the tongue but small
Of
whispering, an artifice some
Other
thief has smoothly tuned.
The
falter-hearted cannot
Venture
into precepts so
Finely
edged; the feathering
Of
dives beyond their
Meagerness
as much a strain
Of
atmospherics as of pinnae.
We
nomads have the string and
Chalk
to measure you, and that
Remains
the wherefore of your
Need;
without us, you will
Wither
into petty vintners and
Viniform
surmise.
So
we come at beck and dawn;
Shine
in the vast reflected
Blue
of Baryonikov irradiant,
Plicated
anger of a thousand
Million
multiplexor nuclei;
Revel
in our demi-musics,
Paired
and gemmatified
Into
roundels no archer's
Aim
can fasten on; flicker
Like
the suns that pass you
In
your muckle dreams of
Endless
fleeing.
Don't
bother envying:
These
journeys too shall
End
crumpled beside the bed,
Dented
damask scented by
Novels
written in the
Belly
of unsulfured fires.
There's
little glamor left
In
brigandage: it all belongs
To
toffeemakers and lancers
Of
unresisting boils, courtiers
Of
a royalty too agued to see
Shadows
of the knifely gesture
Homed
on sallow throats. We
Dance
in your corridas, play
The
threnodies you stop your
Ears
against, and eat
The
veriest hollow souls
Of
children you once believed
You
owned but failed to sell.
We
are the journeymen of
Trades
no one ever thought
To
see reborn; your doom
Is
calling us from graves less
Quiet
than you'll find. Pay
Us
at your peril. We will
Earn
our keep, and in
The
keeping you'll do worse
Than
perish: live instead
In
ghastly, garish splendor.
The
stones themselves will pity
You,
passing limpetish from
Tongue
to tongue in fevered brandy.
You'll
have no respite from
This
prattleskulling until
The
Universe itself goes mute.
-
David
W. Mitchell
