Report from the Bindlesphere

 

Dead of day, but not lost.

Another summons echoing of

Maquetry looses the poetiped

Into freefall, tumbling against

Tesselated walls as though

Possessed by falcon's lust.
 
 

It's a matter for slowness

In repenting, a chasm verged

But not encroached. Larks are

Fonder in the tongue but small

Of whispering, an artifice some

Other thief has smoothly tuned.
 
 

The falter-hearted cannot

Venture into precepts so

Finely edged; the feathering

Of dives beyond their

Meagerness as much a strain

Of atmospherics as of pinnae.
 
 

We nomads have the string and

Chalk to measure you, and that

Remains the wherefore of your

Need; without us, you will

Wither into petty vintners and

Viniform surmise.
 
 

So we come at beck and dawn;

Shine in the vast reflected

Blue of Baryonikov irradiant,

Plicated anger of a thousand

Million multiplexor nuclei;

Revel in our demi-musics, 

Paired and gemmatified

Into roundels no archer's

Aim can fasten on; flicker

Like the suns that pass you

In your muckle dreams of

Endless fleeing.
 
 

Don't bother envying:

These journeys too shall

End crumpled beside the bed,

Dented damask scented by

Novels written in the 

Belly of unsulfured fires.
 
 

There's little glamor left

In brigandage: it all belongs

To toffeemakers and lancers

Of unresisting boils, courtiers

Of a royalty too agued to see

Shadows of the knifely gesture

Homed on sallow throats. We

Dance in your corridas, play

The threnodies you stop your

Ears against, and eat

The veriest hollow souls

Of children you once believed

You owned but failed to sell. 
 
 

We are the journeymen of

Trades no one ever thought

To see reborn; your doom

Is calling us from graves less

Quiet than you'll find. Pay

Us at your peril. We will

Earn our keep, and in

The keeping you'll do worse

Than perish: live instead

In ghastly, garish splendor.

The stones themselves will pity

You, passing limpetish from

Tongue to tongue in fevered brandy.

You'll have no respite from

This prattleskulling until

The Universe itself goes mute.


- David W. Mitchell

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