Loud, subaltern city streets,   bellies wild with discontent;   tall, glass buildings, where we meet   watching classes in descent.       Whoever made these robot angels,   made these urban trash crustaceans;   they occupy the same streets,   and we fill the day with locusts and magazines.      Just south of here, utopia   for sixty bones, euphoria   they're keeping cartoon main streets lit.   And all these puppet cultures learn   every first world has a third;   only love escapes this glass metropolis.       Now information without flesh   means your body's just a drive,   loading up with life and death:   the after-human has arrived.    Melancholy and relief   for the things we never know,   a constellation of defeat   in this sidewalk shadow show      Whoever made these robot angels,   made these urban trash crustaceans;   they occupy the same streets,   and we fill the day with locusts and magazines.   Just south of here, utopia   for sixty bones, euphoria   they're keeping cartoon main streets lit   And all these puppet cultures learn   every first world has a third;   only love escapes this glass metropolis.       Let your eyes go   To Llano   Out the window   To the last maypole