kleaver

How can a naked man run past curfew the streets without living?

Tag: fantasy

i planed across singapore and i saw

The city is a molehill of shimmer, the tips of skyscrapers glaciers glinting their arrogant light across the skies, borne heavens possessed of the idea that they are better than the vacant centres of Moscow with its lot of smelly hostels, fled long ago of grand economic purpose and now altars altared to a vision of hospitality. But these buildings here – they do not know the figure of sacrifice. Their flickering crowns halo the city, and at its apex a gilded structure like a ship cruises to nowhere upon three broad, flat glass fingers. The light of these is a hard inflorescence, but at the wee hours – the lights circulate. They guide the steps of entrepreneurs trudging home, proud bankers shrugging off patent coats, letting loose their watches and ties, flowing executives almost hanged out of their grand urban suffocation that is the city – then at the edges of inhabitation glow the masses of red, orange, yellow lights – barely discernible pinpricks that join into one molten force. Home is the signal. Roofs spiral downwards and cars slide sluggishly off the expresss-way into muddy, home-grown tributaries, driveways with kissing gates and recalcitrant children and a bed for the third of a day. Their little headlights go out, and the sudden black in their wake forms a nimbus, always lingering though distant, a forlorn lamp breathing comfort – illuminating corners – shearing the faces off shadows –– snorting god into the opaque air. The cynics are ashamed of their tiny nightlight, and it grows almost too shy and domestic to project itself, blinking, to the windows of my plane clouds away in the sky. Within this lava of lamps there is an occasional screamer, something flashing red or blue or white, whining through the streets, preoccupied at any hour with the seeking and splinching of mortal peril – sickness or murder or theft, painful effects radiating their odour into the night so fellow cars scrammed pre-cursorily from their flashing routes. The red cacophony of all these businesses – red in tai-lights and white towards – filter through layers of barely discernible, government-approved trees lining roads and frequent parks and void decks hugging the earth –– and emerge, blinking from their furious locomotion and the speed of my flying eye. Then there are the lights that glint off buildings, off the last coats of cement settling over flats of homes, then in acute paths against glass-and-steel constructions before they are thrown back into the clouds, mingling with the vapour and bringing pneumonia whilst they fell back down to earth due to gravity.

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The-round-trip-from-Thailand-inspired, first of a hopeful many.

дело-57

beware the butter
beware the knife
beware oleaginous praise cozened by deprecation
beware your soul ; your soul is unclean
your soul longs to squat in dirt and grime
and your soul will destroy all puritan smut
beware the excuse ; beware your excuses
beware your own fear ; do not fall wary of it
you have came and you have gone
you may have failed to conquer

but beware the desperate hunger in your womb
hysteria will drive you ; do not humour your tragedy
i have seen it ; i can lay claim
to the bathos that quakes your bones through your souls
and aches with rheumatism within your joints
beware the moist of underground palaces
and the noble slickness that wreaths your labyrinths
you are not noble; your soul is ignoble
your tragedy will ignite, and i have heard

the choking agony of agents and heroics and mountain-king
your affliction tightens your shackles
your sobs will water your thorns
there has been no freedom in the parabola of history
and freedom will not trespass on your soul
rule your bubonic epoch
take your newspaper-coffees coming bitter
destroy the breakfast lymphs but
never destroy
the butter