Black Market Mercurio (part…6)

AROUND THE GREASE AIR wire sags, Broadway and droops cross the towers and girders, spread toward rusty substations upon tiers in the ether; such a world of chords throughout the russet atmosphere; in thick braids of Triplex to the masts and conduits of commercial buildings, and to weathered services along the seams into restaurant subcity bids between the slit poles and all the cluttered transformers, to broken signs, down back walls of strips indirectly trace unimaginably, the cables spiral through porcelain insulators further into more gritty transformers and then into homes….  Fascinating subcity wire sags line the avenues and fantastic sidestreets, connect, wire the backgrounds, variously carved together like splices into the barely ancient jagged Broadway mews; as if the skies of the electric ambience cramped flat resonant so close to the streets and traffic, potholes, then echo broken pavements and intercept cracked streams right there, reflected, ricochet the dispersed channels clipped among the glitches….alongside all the shadows of electricity.. Oooh the chunk of pebbles crunch, chill, ground underneath my soft tires faintly easing from all the enormous riot; into sparking along Broadway …will not invisibly beam sharp pierce refracting stereo skips into the electrified place that spills out the powerful vapors through grimy rooftop units, window air unit, quicksilver wriggles tremendous, silvery muddled flowing subcity, exchanging electrons buzzing in ragged flashing tremendous gazes, tall magnifying all the way up to the crosses; just beneath the apex of the marked up raw beholding along the substreets; the crosses; holding through all the novel, all the epic of the droopy wires, attach angles of minor illusions stabbed in my side and the old-fashioned chubs half-shattered with branches curved to transformers, conductors…..hoo boy makes me levitate, circulate, in the innumerous flows, and slightly lower thinking, below…Well, if one of them crosses were missing, wouldn’t …? Oh my, the long sinuous domino opening awe gaping-skies a vacant shade gray rolled unyielding; but in a continuation of the phases (one for every single sort of marvelous absolution) coming undone; so we continue here in these afternoons by the strung out skyline and half decadent crooked poles, admonish places barely stories high, pour over the holy reading…writing…creating…living.. And there, devoured in the hamburger grease blllasting ‘greasestainedparkinglots-embedandloiterbottletops’ reform magnetism in a world of unheard souls, 10,000 saints that can’t save me now.. OH Holy Radio, I’m in wonderment about The Battle of Issis say…yet cold hollow shouts frazzle by the static breaths squeezed in them unnecessary twitches of the vanished jarred shadows, saliently wavy; the cold hollow shouts circulating; on our way; these young bones reverberated so old amongst the lot cracks and seams and the seas of the mind bent awkward, all uneasy feelings passing perpetual panic across the safest place in the world… Cuz, hey, it’s #hotwednesdays_w//-At-the-Drive-in

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