Loud, subaltern city streets,nbellies wild with discontent;ntall, glass buildings, where we meetnwatching classes in descent. nnWhoever made these robot angels,nmade these urban trash crustaceans;nthey occupy the same streets,nand we fill the day with locusts and magazines.nnJust south of here, utopianfor sixty bones, euphorianthey're keeping cartoon main streets lit.nAnd all these puppet cultures learnnevery first world has a third;nonly love escapes this glass metropolis. nnNow information without fleshnmeans your body's just a drive,nloading up with life and death:nthe after-human has arrived. nMelancholy and reliefnfor the things we never know,na constellation of defeatnin this sidewalk shadow shownnWhoever made these robot angels,nmade these urban trash crustaceans;nthey occupy the same streets,nand we fill the day with locusts and magazines.nJust south of here, utopianfor sixty bones, euphorianthey're keeping cartoon main streets litnAnd all these puppet cultures learnnevery first world has a third;nonly love escapes this glass metropolis. nnLet your eyes gonTo LlanonOut the windownTo the last maypole