Neon Creator

City Life. Corruption. Fate. Power.

This city's our flashing crater,

Driving down Hell's Hundred Acres,

They raise their cash filled hands in a prayer

And my fingers reach down to catch them,

But your eyes,

They grow open and closed,

open and closed,

Just blinking between the glow of our Neon Creator,

 

Her smile she knows,

growing to the tallest lamp posts

and wherever her universe will go,

Creeping down Soho and shortening the distance between 

a sealed smile she'll open to close,

open and close,

open and close,

South Borough is our glowing home,

 

Likewise,

I'm a neighborhood artist

in a cast iron architecture,

The universe foretells

with exploding fingers

that expand their control,

Building her brothel

next to a church that she'll work

from open till close,

Twenty five dollars to make her eyes grow softly

open and closed,

The cold chamber you load

for open eyes to close,

 

But the industrial jungle I cover

in a canopy of skyscrapers,

And the pavement smothered in dirty blood

that you savor,

That makes you their Maker,

Deep in our shell we touch our Neon Creator,

With pyramids turned upside down

and floating buildings of gunfire lining the sky,

The quakes of Apocalypse

between the moments we glow,

It's merely the times your eyes will quietly

open and close,

Merely the moments her smile

is open till close,