Excerpt -The Velocity of Ink

     Night in the city. Afraid of no man, he moved throughout. Stepped over killers who slept off the speed. The city that would eat them.

Blind and deaf and dumb.                                                               

The stranger. The years of him. All the years dipped in her blood. Two doors down, and he was nothing. To feel her pulsing, the heart protected. Hers. It would beat how she locked the tumblers down. Three in their beats. Of all the risen moons, one moored to his wrists. Firmament. A recess of hatred. To break free no longer possible, the way time would stop under speed.

     The stranger, his love hidden, his heart deep from the old city. The stranger, now. Dust of a hanging moon, to cry upon his hair. Obsidian pushed back below neon. The buzz. His hate recessed, firmament heart. Passed him once in the hall. What he would tell her if given the grace from a place he had never seen. Drunk, he would feel it. Sober, it blinded him.

     A jack-roller. Pimp. Another pimp that passed him there. Dead-eye to let him know: his life, without worth against the backdrop of night. Pimp. The stranger would kill him in a grip, but lose his grace forever, lost up high. The orbit for a moon fed, the flesh of Asia. A moon dead-eyed, rolled by the jack of eye that passed him in the night.

     There was Asia. Always Asia. Fed a moon lost to the firmament, flames to fan light, its dust reaching, moored recess of hatred. The wrists of the stranger, the blood of Asia, her years. The Moon. The Sun waiting. Bright slave. Hours from now it would burn for nothing more than to shroud her skin through a quilt, to feed her blood, to feed the Moon. Recess for its dust, its light moored to his wrists. Two of them under a city. Trapped.

     Only thing now was the constant of always, his heart, its excuse in neon. A word in bullets, in neon. The word rested upon her hips. The Moon allowing the Sun to enslave itself.

     He watched her through they eyelet when he heard the hall door open. The Sun on high. The neon lost, gone to the word above his wrists, to the day for them to sleep. His wrists, her middle rising and falling, the Sun shrouding her beyond the ink. His arms, her flesh. Moored. The neon word.   


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