Jack of Hearts
01-06-2011, 04:38 PM
We, the filthy smokestacks, watch him skip rocks. He goes to the edge of the city, where it bumps into the dirty lake, to skip rocks. He skips rocks the same way he works. He is up all night moving coal and when we see him through the factory windows his eyelids are pale.
The city is bass without melody. There is heavy clanking but no sound dares float toward heaven. Somewhere between all the steel and the grey there is a church. We haven’t the heart to tell them that there’s no god up here with us. We rain smog on them. We turn the air brown and the sunsets rusty.
And it’s rusty sunset now, and he’s skipping rocks again. Occasionally he coughs into his ruined red mitten- we have long since filled his (and many others’) lungs up with smog. Won’t be long. But tonight we see something we’ve not seen before. In his coughing hand is a matchbook. It’s not totally alarming to us- after all, he is still skipping rocks and we know all about that. It is, however, the first time we’ve seen the matchbook, and on it is a naked women with soul-beaten eyes. There’s a phone number across the bottom.
As far as we know, he has never had a lover. Here in the city, most bodies are anemic and covered in soot- the women simply do not look like women. Sometimes two lovers can find each other but there is that added degree of chance. It is much more efficient not to have a gender preference.
So he wants one who is clean and with defined curves. He wants one who doesn’t keep ratty hair behind a maid’s rag. But, we wonder, has he already called? We study the greasy dark mop atop his head as he faces the muddy lake. We think he has. How very odd, how very out of character. Understand, his lungs are filling with smog and soot. His exercise is futile, he is already lost. We think, in a way, he perceives that. We rain a little extra smog on him tonight- go to work.
But that’s not the direction he’s heading. He’s moving through the avenues and sometimes the glow of old, dim neon flicks across his face- they shine from somewhere along the bases of the undecor’d grey buildings. Make no mistake, there is no glitz here. Just vestigial remnants tucked away at odd corners- memories of a better time.
He has wandered into a cheap hotel where undoubtedly he will meet with that woman. He will have the experience of intercourse. It’s strange to us that he would even bother. His life was on a timer from the moment it started, more than halved by our insidious business with his chest. Moving coal was enough to fill his hours. Like vermin chewing through the innards of a building he has found a surprising way to utilize his nature. Sometimes the apparent ingenuity is just a freak force of nature- a rat has chewed a way around a trap, rather than go over it. But there are many other traps and it is entirely certain he will be caught. Why run for freedom?
And there he is, when the curtain is pulled back. A little moonlight gets through and we can really see. His spent body is lying on the mattress. We’ve never seen him sleep like that before.
The city is bass without melody. There is heavy clanking but no sound dares float toward heaven. Somewhere between all the steel and the grey there is a church. We haven’t the heart to tell them that there’s no god up here with us. We rain smog on them. We turn the air brown and the sunsets rusty.
And it’s rusty sunset now, and he’s skipping rocks again. Occasionally he coughs into his ruined red mitten- we have long since filled his (and many others’) lungs up with smog. Won’t be long. But tonight we see something we’ve not seen before. In his coughing hand is a matchbook. It’s not totally alarming to us- after all, he is still skipping rocks and we know all about that. It is, however, the first time we’ve seen the matchbook, and on it is a naked women with soul-beaten eyes. There’s a phone number across the bottom.
As far as we know, he has never had a lover. Here in the city, most bodies are anemic and covered in soot- the women simply do not look like women. Sometimes two lovers can find each other but there is that added degree of chance. It is much more efficient not to have a gender preference.
So he wants one who is clean and with defined curves. He wants one who doesn’t keep ratty hair behind a maid’s rag. But, we wonder, has he already called? We study the greasy dark mop atop his head as he faces the muddy lake. We think he has. How very odd, how very out of character. Understand, his lungs are filling with smog and soot. His exercise is futile, he is already lost. We think, in a way, he perceives that. We rain a little extra smog on him tonight- go to work.
But that’s not the direction he’s heading. He’s moving through the avenues and sometimes the glow of old, dim neon flicks across his face- they shine from somewhere along the bases of the undecor’d grey buildings. Make no mistake, there is no glitz here. Just vestigial remnants tucked away at odd corners- memories of a better time.
He has wandered into a cheap hotel where undoubtedly he will meet with that woman. He will have the experience of intercourse. It’s strange to us that he would even bother. His life was on a timer from the moment it started, more than halved by our insidious business with his chest. Moving coal was enough to fill his hours. Like vermin chewing through the innards of a building he has found a surprising way to utilize his nature. Sometimes the apparent ingenuity is just a freak force of nature- a rat has chewed a way around a trap, rather than go over it. But there are many other traps and it is entirely certain he will be caught. Why run for freedom?
And there he is, when the curtain is pulled back. A little moonlight gets through and we can really see. His spent body is lying on the mattress. We’ve never seen him sleep like that before.