I never cease to be amazed at its effects on the
senses. The neon holographic advertisements glowing angelically; the stench of a dead boy,
lying on the sidewalk. The dull gleam of the Panthers wandering, lost,
near the black Tower. The patrol, laughing, batons still dripping with menacingly
scarlet moisture.

The Tower is tall, obsidian and prideful. Sole bridge to heaven, the old buildings are
skeletal retardations. In the black Tower, you hear everything
but yourself. Holding metal roses and steel carnations, I sneak past flashing
lights and disco fights. They are for the angel/corpse/miracle
forced from the clouds
into subsidised humanity.

I see the girl leaning on opaque glass panes,
against white light and plain silk. I calculate her every angle,
every anorexic curve. Grey pavement, black dress, fluorescent halo,
weeping wings. Feet one size far too small.

"At least the pain means you're still human, love."
I whispered, as we stared straight into the steel city sky.