It needs to be said because it was never said before, and the consequences of such silence are only just now becoming apparent. The spent shells of a day long orgy in shotgun explanations have cut the walls to gloryholes for all the witnesses to get off on looking through, never knowing there are voyeurs from every angle, each watching and wanking with equal fervor to those thinking they’re "in the know." A thousand eyes observing with the same gaze, inspiring the same response, and all thinking each the individual. But it’s just a mass of masturbating ghouls, pressed to holely walls to witness a murder of crows pecking at a dead woman. No one knows who, and it’s doubtful her name will ever matter. She’s the actress who killed herself -- no one knows why though conspiracy cranks surmise a hundred in accurate possibilities; she’s the orphan who sold trinkets on the street only to freeze to death a few days from Christmas; she’s the last woman you ever loved and lost track of, maybe it wasn’t even your heart break that did her in, but who’ll ever know; she’s the mother gave up her kids for their better, just to find out they resent her years later; she’s a wife who loved but not her husband, so she caught the train too early because of it, landing where the Iron Horse flung her thinking she’s an attacker or stowaway or who can even say what trains think; she’s the goddess without worshipers. The only fact is that someone found her, and someone else wanted to claim the corpse, and they got to arguing so passionately attention was drawn from every quarter, thinking the cacophony a raucous party -- COME ONE COME ALL; the point lost the more arrive to make it their own. Only the murder carries any piece of the truth: the world belongs to those who consume it.
In their two hundred fifty calls, two distinct dialects apparent to discriminating ears, the murder are the only ones present who lay hands (of a sort) on the body. Pecking pieces to nourish themselves and carry to young, they feast on the image too many make too much out of, keeping the issue simple in the murder’s own way. The simplicity of crows, a lesson lost to the flop smack, wet flish-flish of the witnesses, men and women pleased to see something they can relate to, or think as much. But there are no words that go between, save for the caws of carrion crows, who make no bones, save the skeleton’s, about what they are. There are just thoughts to lie.
In their two hundred fifty calls, two distinct dialects apparent to discriminating ears, the murder are the only ones present who lay hands (of a sort) on the body. Pecking pieces to nourish themselves and carry to young, they feast on the image too many make too much out of, keeping the issue simple in the murder’s own way. The simplicity of crows, a lesson lost to the flop smack, wet flish-flish of the witnesses, men and women pleased to see something they can relate to, or think as much. But there are no words that go between, save for the caws of carrion crows, who make no bones, save the skeleton’s, about what they are. There are just thoughts to lie.
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