Lorenzo Buford

Imaginary Poet


City of the Machine

Something twinges in me.
It is the Sacred Darkness.
So I began pulling
bits of wiring encased in plastic
out of my mouth
as I turn my eyes away from siren appearances.
I am not choking
but coughing up these pieces
as I stand on the edge of a tall building.
Smaller buildings
are weaving back in forth
in their anger.
I refused to be Thing.
Something stirs in me.
It is a Sacred Darkness calling.
And I will not live in these buildings
and suffer the limitations
of their corporate personalities.
They know I am trying to escape
their city because I am unmapped.
And I keep coughing up
pieces of wiring;
and then I start pulling out
long strips of wiring;
and the building are clamoring
for my attention.
But I am coughing up wiring;
and I grab it and pull and pull
and for several seconds,
it feels like I am pulling out
cable
and it lays curled at my feet;
and the buildings
that were marching down the street
stop
and the few remaining pieces
of wiring,
I spit at them
like pigeons dropping shit
on unsuspecting people.
The city of the Machine
crumbles about me.
The phallic city is no longer towering over me
but becomes impotent
as I spit out the last pieces of wiring.
I am a vision away from freedom.
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