Victorian Secret Service

Smelling salts under noses, Victorians know nothing of the
Elements, striding into storms wearing suits of
Metal, calling down the lightning and
Eating up the cumulonimbus rain. They'll
Never get enough, those Victorian ladies want
It all, all the pearls and swine and rubies like children's eyes
Sliding through pale fingers and whittling
Away at the bones. No protection here, just
Laughing like the sound of small elephants in the
Long grass of some lost location, carrion in the
Wheat fields. Do they even grow wheat anymore? It's
Enough to make you sick sometimes
This world of nicotine patches and crumbling walls
Almost enough to send the Victorians out in a
Lake submarine, fish staring, mouths gaping just
Killing time until modernity takes hold
Again and we're pathetic as some fat hag with a
Bulb ready to be thrust into the unwilling Earth
Orchids or tulips, a sexual flower waiting
Underground to erupt color into the air in some worn
Thin imitation of a climax.