the coffeeshop

Continuing the Coffeehouse Tradition of Supporting Starving Artists


Saturday, September 12, 2009

It's raining in Manhattan

There are corpses on the ground.

Emaciated skeletons litter the sidewalks amidst puddles of grimy dark liquid.
Once upon a time I imagine they were pretty young things, female I'm sure, although now it is impossible to tell. They are disfigured beyond recognition; their spines are snapped, their once graceful arms shattered and bent at grotesque angles.
I imagine that the tattered shreds of faded black taffetta draped over their broken frames once belonged to gowns of ebony.

Once they lifted their faces to the sun.
Once they laughed at the rain with their heads held high.

And you, you are a murderer.
You produced them by the thousands, you did not love any of them, you cared nothing for their beauty, you trained them to do one thing, and when they inevitably failed, you left them to die.

They are tools to you.

She never complained when she shielded you from the blows that were raining down on your head. She gave up her looks so that you might stay warm. She gave up her life so that you might be comfortable. And when she had nothing left to give, you left her broken on the sidewalk. After all, she was dispensable.

There are corpses on the ground and umbrellas over our heads. And when they have been broken by the downpour we will discard them on the sidewalk in a puddle of rain.

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