Loud, subaltern city streets, bellies wild with discontent; tall, glass buildings, where we meet watching classes in descent.
Whoever made these robot angels, made these urban trash crustaceans; they occupy the same streets, and we fill the day with locusts and magazines.
Just south of here, utopia for sixty bones, euphoria they're keeping cartoon main streets lit. And all these puppet cultures learn every first world has a third; only love escapes this glass metropolis.
Now information without flesh means your body's just a drive, loading up with life and death: the after-human has arrived. Melancholy and relief for the things we never know, a constellation of defeat in this sidewalk shadow show
Whoever made these robot angels, made these urban trash crustaceans; they occupy the same streets, and we fill the day with locusts and magazines.
Just south of here, utopia for sixty bones, euphoria they're keeping cartoon main streets lit And all these puppet cultures learn every first world has a third; only love escapes this glass metropolis.
Let your eyes go To Llano Out the window To the last maypole