indigo greenness

Murky dusk sweeps the streets of the city. As the wind entangles with dry branches,  lampshades take over the urban scenery. Dim-lit afternoons disappear as the hollowness of the conversation between the cool, hooting air and shop windows is conquering the empty streets. Cold air like long passages through the city in search for the glow of the echo. A reflection of moonlight on muted walls in search for the sparkle borne out of the collision of two droplets playing on the ridge of one amongst numberless waves. Caught in the instant bathed in an echo of the gleam / the moment awashed in the kiss of dew.

Crawling city air through dark passageways, arcades, underpasses, tunnels, archways, overpasses. Lonely crawler, unaware of its lonesomeness.  Indifferent facades. Cityscape incapable of interacting. Architecture in denial of what it inhabits. Quirky dwellers unwelcoming by definition, or, because there is no contrast to define how welcoming they may be. Silent, glimmering whisper borne out of the search for the instant awashed in the fusion of two sparkling droplets melting from the kiss of dew / when sunshine’dl mean sweet fruit & freedom from everything, but not for anything : language, not the narrative.

thou wha?!

Through the cracks on the paint peeling off the aloof facades, the cold of the roaming air in search for the interior entailing a different setting, different roleplay. Cracks on the paint as a trajectory of the communication between the cold air and a droplet as it crystallizes. likephunkofdamotherphunkiephunk!

wass yo phunkie narrative, ha?! language, not the narrative, lacy blizzardness : sweet fruit & freedom from everything, but not for anything.

Like gateways to microtunnels, peel cracks open like petals. As if coloring the eye of the aimlessly wandering airy crawler with a smell of a night lulled into the enchantment of heavy, colossal snow dunes. Protectively shielding the window shyly smiling the warmth radiated from the source leaning over a page of ye book.

thou wha?! 

little one, behive, for mafotherphunkie sake!!!

thou wha?!

thou shalt hark, won’t thou, ha?!

thou wha?!

hark rightdaphunkiephunk now : narrative it is not yoz / language : sweet fruit & freedom from everything, but not for anything.

A lamp poking a ray over the page of ye mafotherphunkie book, yo! Snow dunes like a fortress shielding the friendly walls embracing the interior bathed in the language radiating from the page of ye book mafotherphunkielikephunkiephunk.

thou wha?!

As the overpouring ray is dominating the room, the window shyly smiles a sparkle of the echo of the melting kiss of dew right into the apex of the ridge of a snow dune infusing into it the warmth of the golden tapestry covering the surface of the river. On a warm summer night smelling of rich greenness invisible within an indigo empire.

Ha! 

Like yo!

Language / not the narrative.

Q / A : sweet fruit & freedom from everything, but not for anything : it’s called the poetics of the remix.