The Electric Contract
Words poetic drip off his tongue like honeydew, for he is The Writer.
They cut like hot daggers burning the white magma, clickety clack, on The Page.
Rat-a-tat-tat, silver bullets bleeding holes in the heart, lucid gangster, she is The Poet.
Walking through the mist, across a steampunk platform, blood-red stilettoes echoing The Typewriter.
A mysterious alliance passes the dossier like a key, she stares right through him in The Dream.
Then, as swiftly as she appears, she leaves him rain-soaked and bound to the shadowed tracks of The Narrative.
She steps back from the ledge, reassessing The Narrative,
her gloved fingers trailing over the lapel of The Writer.
Tactical, warm-blooded survival replaces the haze of The Dream,
their breath tangling in the cold air above The Page.
She slides the dossier’s content into the brass casing of The Typewriter,
then, behind her, pressing her shoulder, his lips at her ear, he whispers a quiet threat to The Poet.
A transactional pact is sealed in the dark by The Poet,
designed to hijack the agency's overarching Narrative.
He logs the ciphers, her perfume stalling the transactional keys of The Typewriter,
his clinical focus surrendering to the heat, now he is fully becoming The Writer.
No vows are spoken, but skin brushes skin against The Page,
a heavy, dangerous gravity born out of utility, not The Dream.
Sentimentality is a liability best left in The Dream,
yet his hand lingers on the hip of the deadly Poet.
They divide the payload, ready to burn The Page,
cutting off the handlers who control The Narrative.
Thigh to thigh in the shadows, she backs up The Writer,
their syncopated pulse mocking the rhythm of The Typewriter.
Brass casings clatter like the metallic teeth of The Typewriter,
wiping clean the lingering illusions of The Dream.
He covers her flank, eyes tracing her line like The Writer,
while she clears the corridor, flushed and lethal, The Poet.
They press against the brick, breath heavy against The Narrative,
as rain dissolves the last blueprinted lie on The Page.
Now the dust settles over the heavily stamped Page,
the quiet punctuated only by the cool-down of The Typewriter.
In the lingering heat, they hold the leverage and The Narrative.
No soft promises, no delicate architecture of The Dream,
just two conspirators catching their breath … The Poet
and the KAOS agency partner she pulls close in, The Writer.
The Writer draws the quiet breath of The Poet,
as The Typewriter seals their electric contract on The Page,
controlling The Narrative without ever surrendering to The Dream.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
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