We live in cities | find every way to | deny connection | assert our glamour | skeletons in crowns of pearls | long white furs | posing with | cigars and Kalashnikovs | on ruined thrones | in burnt-out palaces

Eating jewels | creeping | with a lover’s | mantis care | over the leaf | of her skin, putting kindness | in pots and barrels | roll them down | to a basement | the size of Vietnam | or maybe of | Red Square | Listen: I am the King of | Nowhere in Lonely Planet | I’m telling you | don’t come here

Our cars are | long diamonds | ever | accelerating in darkness | on photographs | yes | it is | lying back into | you again | Make a river | make a mountain | mix them up | start running like there is no | tomorrow | floating and climbing | to the peak | a filthy | estuary | with seals and | smoky gulls | turds in the water | turds | in the high snows

Put on the music | take the top down | ride to a drive-in | summer | buy ice-creams with cherries and coconut | Call a press | conference | hold it | in a cemetery | where we buried our rivals | explain | we’re not here to make peace | let them see our death | shining out | through | the slums of motives | death has a very | particular light | Let them see it, and let them | know it

We live in cities | they don’t put | in TripAdvisor | dump our victims | on the edge of forests | near raw farms | where beat-head kids | ride quad bikes over dusty tracks | listening | to four-years-ago music

We live in cities | take | slinky | escalators upwards | to consume | our next portion of bliss a.k.a. | partial or even total | oblivion | We meet in gangs | with signs of bombs or moons | zip on scooters | through streets locked down | on bright powers | drained from invisible | slaves | on rocking | metro trains | read biographies | of Madonna or Mao Zedong | comb through the bones | of cool texts | in fashionable | loft conversions | and I love | your naked skull | I still | recognise | your teeth | I like to | kiss you | how we | chink and rattle | when our jaws bump | and glide

Turn my head upside down | Play the old | flute of my hollow spine | elicit a few | chosen echoes | Crash the party | where the zombies | of class and special | personal | individual | drives and fears | share the symbols of their private grace | sift their states | of safety and | disconnection | where Lord Yes-but-we-just-can’t-do-anything-more pours Lady Ah-I-just-adore-Matisse chilled prosecco | Show them the guns | let them look into the sockets where | our eyes used to be | pull up our sleeves | show them the bones | grin our non-plus-ultra grins | invite them back to our place | put them to work | in the fields | see who protests | see who says “yes, but” | see who really | likes it | see who comes

We live in cities | and insects in jeeps | with machine pistols and camouflage | jackets | gnaw at the foundations | of our ethereal towers | claiming a common | decay | We gas ourselves | like butterflies | addicted to collectors | battle | dragons of pabulum | and shambling trolls | We live in Paris | but there are parts of Paris | the teeth of no palace | can find roots | and in the graveyards of our poses | we work at night | digging up mouldering | gestures | gangsters in cool films | vampires in not-so-cool | films

We live in cities | overlooked | by Rough Guides and Baedeker | not so pretty | but we have our own way of doing | things | In rhinestone bulldozers | mass the corpses | with a ki-yi-yipee | in uniforms by Dior and Jean-Paul | Sartre’s | Parfum du 69 | in helicopter | gunships of mink and peaches | strafe the stores with their starving | mannequins | cart Christ | above the nonplussed | crowds of Roman | Catholics | while airships made of | mirrors | glide overhead | lit by staccato lasers | decorated with shows | of smiling children and sparkling pools | of dragonflies and white lotuses

We live in cities | sweep through | evacuated boroughs | murder our way | to the restaurant | Tuck our daughters | up in napkins | our sons | on beds of fragrant rice | The Press is forever | asking us this and that | we deny all knowledge | we don’t | have conversations | we make announcements | we don’t meet anyone, and we don’t | need to make sense | we just | need to shine so brightly | we blind ourselves | we just | hold audiences

We live in cities | always in the centre | far from the sewers | hick | highways | out into the endless country | we know | nothing of the darkness | that falls | beyond streetlights | or the dance of | messianic thugs | with a taste for god and human skins | how they do their dance | in boots like | real commandos or marines | black ops | special forces | elite units | just like them | funny dance! | not so graceful | to those like us who | live in cities | a crumbled | Paris in my dreams | crumbled | London in their dreams

I live in cities | I am Venus and Saturn, too | Mars | and Neptune | I cover | all the bases | When I walk through the hot streets | shoot me from above | I am a great star | and my followers | a stream | of small stars | a milky | phosphorus | and you can’t do me harm | even if you existed | it’s too late to reach me | I’ve already put down an installment | on eternity | you can compete for love | but I don’t need it | and you can rush towards | your idea of posterity | but I won’t go there | the only place you can really go | is down on your knees | Bow your heads | to my gross Jupiter | who cares | what’s going on out there? | We have our own lives | and we live in cities


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

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