(no subject)
Blood pours down the mountain side and through the streets where the birds play in it and the children splash it with heavy stomps. It pours down car windows on rainy days when rain drops go their separate ways, slowly climbing down the glass surface, refracting red stoplights. And with a heavy sigh, a man who thought he loved her, leaning across the back seat of a cab, glares at the dark world through the illuminated red tint splattered on the window. He squints his eyes and contorts the magestic shapes of headlights. Blood pours down the city avenue that was once paved with bricks. It pours through the dozens of doors in the international airport and through the terminal. She didn't ever call. And the blood pours under the plane engines as they lift off the ground and pass through thunderclouds. And it pours through the cement trenches that go into the woods and then through underground tunnels. And then out to the roaring sea where the waves are stirred in all directions as if the thick brine were boiling like a stew and being upturned by a god's spoon. And it pours into the leaks of a fishing vessel where she hides with twenty other refugees beneath a heavy fastened tarp. She thought she loved him. The blood stains her cheeks as she looks through a hole in the tarp up into the black and gray thunderous clouds and sees a plane light at which she squints her eyes and takes for a shooting star. Blood pours through the streams and seas of the world, all pulsing veins and vessels, like vines taking hold of an eggshell. The deep sighs and moans dissipate into the quiet night sky. Somewhere else it is daytime and the marketplaces are filled with coupled footsteps and the fury of thunderous voices. And the stars listen deafly to the prayers of deafs and mutes and watch the bloody tale of idiots over and over again as if the boy who cried wolf never stopped crying.