The King of the City is mostly dead cells and urban myth, striding the horizon like the ghost of industry past. Babies fall silent when he stoops to kiss their brows, and it’s said that if he shakes your hand, you’ll never write again. His eyes are numbers that never settle and gesture to meanings you’ll never grasp, and his voice is a promise that sits on the oiled blade of a premise based on nothing but the memory of trust. He holds out a new deal for the desperate, but don’t inspect the details, and he hands over portfolios of programs to settle all accounts, but it’s best not to query the figures. The King of the City’s the King of the World, and his eyes are wandering to the stars. He’s mostly dead, and so is the city, and the babies who lie in the cold back alleys will grow into numbers that won’t add up, and they’ll suck on the myths of rich milk and honey, and they will never need to learn to write their own names.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor
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