Alphaville
by Alan Jude Moore

At 4am you find yourself not in Europe
sitting in the back rooms of billiard bars
strung outside some place they forgot to name

The Ukrainian waitress will not talk to anyone
Even those who swear
they will take her back across the border

or out across the ring road past the last metro line
where the cables do not stretch to and photographs
are filled with grass sky horizon

Here there are no birds
and there is no cause for acrobatics
Leaves begin to flutter on the road

Cars creased together at the intersection
all these women bring themselves to bear
like crosses on men who wander from home to home

Rained on girls float by the Olympic gardens
Beer bottles roll beneath the tramway
and soldiers arrive for a sort of celebration

At 4am you find yourself making telephone calls
from the back rooms of billiard bars
All this time we have wasted

crawling around in Alphaville
taking the elevator to the 13th floor
just to wait and watch for the end of it all

No more screaming spires or drunken cars
no more darkened voices on the stairs
they have passed through the wires
into skyline and traffic jams

Recordings that repeat themselves left on automatic

 

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