The pylons are walking. Roaming the earth. Across fields. Onto motorways. Cars swerve and skid as they clank by. Shadows fall upon awestruck onlookers. Humming. Communicating. I've heard them passing in the night. I've seen their silhouettes on the horizon, moving under the moon and the stars. Mighty Byzantine crosses. Conjoined by conductor cables. A high voltage chain gang. Tethered. Terminal. Tension. Transposition. Power line suspension in transit. 'Hyperboloid Horror!' reads the headline. Helicopter news crews follow overhead. Rolling coverage. It's the talk of the nation. Pitiful punditry, at a loss but pretending. We're consulting Bernard Quatermass via Skype. 'Where are they going?' 'Has this happened before?' 'Could it be end times?' Novenas are recited. Shelters are constructed. They're steadily proceeding, en masse, to the coast, toward the sea. Steel skeletons wade into the waves. Lumbering lattices collapse into the depths. A fatal charge is administered to the whole nation. A population shudders. Eyes roll back in every head. Men, women, children, domestic pets drop dead. Corpses scattered and heaped. Livestock smoulders. The stench of singed wool. Starlings swoop and plummet ablaze. Boiled fish float to the surface of the sea. Every living thing united in ceasing to be. We were warned. We should have listened but we didn't, did we? Nobody fucks with the E ...S ...B.
A Beautiful Solar Eclipse Print (1858)
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