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The Bunker Review

The Bunker Review

Hollow Bones (And Farewell To This City)

By Keira Clements

 

THE DEVIL’S HOUR STRIKES.

I INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST TO BRING YOU A MESSAGE.

 

Virtuous city: I bid farewell.

I have witnessed every catastrophe,

and in these final words, I confess 

that I, like all people, carry to earth

a secret which I shall now reveal. 

My burial place, to be sure, 

will be greeted only by the 

circling of vulturous creatures.

But it is no fault in your heart.

I shall call you the “white pawn”,

for your sins evade conscience.

You know not better than this.

 

NIGHT IS LONG AND I AM ENDLESS.

WHICH WILL BE VANQUISHED FIRST?

 

Heavenly city: I am no man

but an assorted devil,

with full and flowing wings 

that weigh upon my back,

and a twin-pronged tail

that lashes smartly like a whip.

My fangs you would abhor,

though they are not vampiric.

My eyes you would dread,

though they only glisten

that I may wake at the setting sun.

 

I WILL LIVE AS LONG AS I LEECH. 

I WILL LIVE UNTIL THE SUN RISES AGAIN.

 

Righteous city: I lament my being.

What hollow bones are mine, 

that echo back at the slightest tap. 

What dark feathers are these,

that sprout like blades from my arms.

What grotesque thing am I,

that emerges only when light

has been extinguished.

What fiction, what fantasy gives

that these wings are things for angels?

What lie proclaims that I must be

more than the gray and unsure

penumbra to their form?

I wish only to live unchained

by definitions.

 

THE SIGHT OF A DECEASED CROW ATTRACTS OTHERS.

IN SOME CASES, HUNDREDS, GAZING IN SILENCE.

 

Insensible city: I beseech you.

This living monster, mind split,

drowns in the dialogue of 

your commercialized streets.

He cannot walk among you.

His body disintegrates at the 

touch of the light you depend on.

He can only slip through shadows.

When he bleeds, he bleeds blue.

If he wished to have crimson pains,

as the lot of you do, to whom 

could he speak, that he might

have himself transmuted? 

 

BE NOT FOOLED, WE ARE ALL FRANKENSTEIN CREATIONS.

NONE OF US HOLD ORIGINAL TRUTHS.

 

Counterfeit city: I propose to you.

Who owns the darkness when all

eyes are shut? Who owns the moon

that shines so distantly above us?

Who owns the ground beneath our feet?

We are divided ambivalently

between certainty and chaos.

The winged devil before you—

See him writhe in the sirenic lull 

of your sax and neon lights.

These ideas, you have invented,

you say, but they are truly absurd.

The winged devil you neglect— 

See him perish on hollow bones

no more resilient than ice.

You cannot help but be relieved

that the monster is horribly weak.

You think you’ll remember his face,

but the image rapidly fades.

 

THE FUTURE WE CANNOT DETERMINE;

BUT THE PAST IS A DANGEROUS LIE.

 

Deplorable city: I dare to inquire.

Hearing now my account,

What sort of pity do you feign?

What resentment do you withhold, 

that prior was unrestrained?

Now gamble on it, would you?

Sell your fortune to the randomness

of a predetermined life. And when

you wake up tremulous at night,

having dreamt only of colored chips,

observe a devil through the red curtains.

He prays, and then he leaps off the balcony. 

Wind catches his feathers and he glides,

an onyx shape, over the pavement.

This act is your absolution.

 

DO NOT ASSERT CREDENCE IN “SOCIETY”.

THE LORD OF CROWS HAS FOUND HIS KINGDOM.

 

Woeful city: I, too, go to sleep.

Upside down, I hang, a reverse tarot 

with dark wings folded over my breast.

I dream I will alight bitter and unfettered.

In those dreams, I am self-assured, 

peering down at human masses 

from a tower above the clouds.

I bear neither wings nor a tail,

only mortal parts and mortal strings.

Curiosity compels me to the edge.

No longer does Endless wait below.

It is the sight of death that lures us all.

If I could ever truly fall like you,

I would fear every step I take.

Why, then, are you so cruel

as to step on one another?

 

I WAS BORN WITH HOLLOW BONES.

MY SKELETON IS MY BEING.

 

Sinful city: I bid farewell.

In my final words, I confess

I know not what it means 

to live as a “human being”.

 

THAT WILL BE ALL.

THE BROADCAST RESUMES.

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