by Iddhis Bing
Ah, the wounded Valkyries tearing through the skies, their wings dripping blood.
They're terribly frightful creatures. The jewels and pendants hanging off their clothes can really tear you to shreds. Just the cleaning bill alone must be devastating.
No one knows their secret pains and missed appointments. Once they dreamed of being artists but finding the natural arrangement of wordly goods sufficiently artistic, they quickly reconciled to life. Now they are condemned to fly around the city with immense coiffure and gorgeous boots seeking out their lost loves hidden inside expensive objects. If only an amethyst could replace a dream!
Ah, pity the poor Valkyries!
It takes hours to get in costume, and after, no one ever asks them to sing. Or to dance! No, Mister Moneybags never takes them to some outré bar where they might have a bit of fun at his expense. Instead they clutch pointless little handbags and fly about like demented moths circling an intense flame in a shoestore window. And they are always in a hurry, except when they are not. Do you understand? You cannot. They have somewhere else to be and they are always late.
They fly past, their eyes tearing before the entrance to the Metro. One sees only boots, camel hair, a flash of gold, a shimmering mane glide by. Out of the way, commoners, cleaning ladies, plumbers, drunks on your way home from an afternoon binge, out of the way! They are not of this earth.
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A short prose poem, not at all connected with the novel excerpts elsewhere on this site. (They warned to keep it short.) Call it an updated "Paris Spleen."