Lessness

Outskirts

Bodies that can hardly move. Muscles drained of energy to support the need of the limbs they constitute. Bones that crackle under the impulse sent from the brain about the emptiness in the stomach. About the empty pockets. About the dessert ravishing all the corners of what by now cannot even be distinguished as the inside, or, the outside of the body. Of the whole being. Eyes indifferent to the stimuli coming from the surrounding buildings. Because they are all the same. Invasive to the point of becoming indistinguishable from their seemingly varied occurrences. Anything that can ever meet the eye is yet another manifestation of the exhausting sameness. Hunger has no way to respond to visual signals. Powerless legs cannot run after an audio input for at least two reasons: (1) Being deprived of the strength necessary for a physical movement; (2) Being incapable to receive the signal.

Bodies motionless on the streets of the city. Emptying the misery of the dessertlike life into the deaf pavement, muted walls, sightless windows. An occasional groan is released as if the lack of energy were being compensated. Or, at least, in hope for such a compensation. No language is spoken where heaps of bodies cover the squares of the city, portraying a suburban version of the dark lands. No words among the remnants of the bodies that once ran, played, jumped. No warmth in the place where once a steady beat was rocking.

Thoughts whose origin is unknown are floating aimlessly. Nobody knows who sends them. Nor does anyone care to try to receive them. Because under no circumstances can they be rendered intelligible. How could they, when the stench of urine-saturated stones that pass for pillows conspire with the contagiously sour odor of the indistinguishable mixture of excrements, garbage, and thoughts.

Mouths are dry. Water is not within reachable distance. Because reachable distance is only here. In the narrowest of senses of the word. Wild-eyed dry mouths. With no water within reachable distance. Ears that cannot hear. Because the mouths are dry. Because the stomachs are fucking empty. Because there’s nothing in the pockets. Because there is no one who can speak so the words become intelligible.

Thoughts of urban desserts occupy the mind. The mind awash in stories about urban desserts. Empty stories. Told to noone. Because there is no fucking one who can make them communicable.

Bodies like heaps. Minds like streets. Stories like they have never been inspired by anything.

At the Bar

An uneventful afternoon found Ye Kids indulging themselves in the quiet of the gentle drizzle coloring the grey day with a touch of laziness…indifference to picturing a possibility that a smile of a sunny day could ever again bathe the city hopelessly drenched with the moribund staleness. There’s a juke box in the corner of the Café Club Museum bar. One wonders if the minds deeply submerged in their own content can ever register the sound coming from that funny object. Whether they are aware of the simultaneity of the other minds’ being equally incapable of receiving the same audio input is unknown, as well. To what extent those minds might perceive the muscles they move and that requite by sending a message about a satisfactory realization of the request is not compatible with the measurements available to either mind or the body. Likewise, to what degree the body movements condition the next requirement that the mind sends, too, exceeds the available measurements.

Nevertheless, the music from the juke box is filling the bar. Slowly, it starts moving in the way smell or light does.

Hey! The old factory is sending a message about a possible concentration of powers that demand prompt responses. Comrade grooviologists, do admit that, despite the overwhelming temptation to say that what you hear is not music, it is, nonetheless, so. That said, lift your shitty asses from the chairs, unglue the forearms from the soft embrace of the armchair, undo the grip of the cushion,  and get on your fucking feet, so we can within the space of no more than two seconds feel each other’s hands and start doing what we don’t exactly have to, but will!

Hey, yeah! What the fuck do you mean by asking from anyone that kind of admittance?

Hey, agree! Who the fuck are you to ask from anyone anything, let alone such stupid thing!

To hell with darkness! You know who I am and so should you know about your goodselves. If still not too sure, get your fucking memory refreshed and think anti-robozombism! Shut the fuck up and talk so we can understand each other, as we are recuperating energies for the counterrrites that are obviously being called for. Turn on the fucking organic processor of the info and get ready for the counter-post-coital-act.

Like, fuck! Like fuck!

Dapoltri!

Archive Stories

What until a moment ago sounded like the music that nobody recognized as such starts acquiring the shape of the screeching that no ear can be immune to. The noise is becoming so dense that it is transforming the atmosphere in the bar into vacuum. The noise is the blinding, rancid vacuum. The noise is the avalanche of the words impossible to comprehend. The noise is the flood of sewage waters of sentences that nobody produced. The noise is the face of an exploding gargoyle.  The noise is the blow of the stickiness of the gelatinous, molten remnants of solid entities. Petrified sound.

Bloody, fucking, shit! Turn the volume up! Right the fucking way!

the sound is the glow of the sand on the beach is the sparkle from the grain of sand is the smiles of the leaves on the trees are the thoughts thought are the steps walked is the music from the juke box is the sound recorded in the studio is the idea transpositioned into the audio form is the remix of the inspiration

Now, send this fucking shit to the Archive immediately!

Orajt! Orajt!