Without flash, there is barely a chance against the shadows.
We’re too deep underground
For the sun to remember us.
Once standing, once dressed, once giving people in a taking society,
Buried so that my family could never rearrange my bones
In the old limestone quarries.
I am one of six million.
Something like nothing, and a lot like detritus
Left over from the city mold growing
Over our skulls like halos.
In the dark we are the bones of Parisian
Bakers and florists and foundry men and captains,
Hidden to snuff the stink of our disease
That never left the bones of the men who carried us
Through midnight Paris suburbs,
And were probably later carried themselves
To our geometric stacks.
A national treasury
Of anthropologic treasures.
A salute and a slap
To the greatness of the Empire.
The Empire of the Sun that never sank,
That just spun around the world
With its fiery mean eye,
That never reached underground.
A parade with everyone smiling,
Their lips long, long decayed.
We are stacked.
Night after night
Flashbulb after flashbulb.
<< Heureux celuis qui a toujours
devant les yeux l’heure de sa mort et
qui se dispose tous les jours a mourir >>