The city is full of poets. Words run in the gutters like wine. The gibbet is set on a hill. The hill overlooks the city. There is a head of Plato on the city gates, on a pike. Politics here are as corrupt as in your town, as chilling as the activities of knaves. It is easier to fall once and rise than to fall over and over. The poets are in charge of the auto da fe. It’s great to be alive and to live in the city. Curtis says, this is where we were heading even if we were not aware of it. Curtis says, I will rule over my city like a spirit that is broken down and without walls. Curtis says, wine runs in our veins like words. We are all poets, drunkards, executioners. It is that kind of city we built, the last word in civilization.
published 15 May 2012