Storystyling : Cityface (three / 5)

Palephotonic Stash

Gushes of hooting air thrown into the tubelike pathway. Gusts of wild airy cohorts vehemently whoo-hooing through the urban intergalactic viaduct. Multilayered web of passages connecting the city zones. Curving, bending, swerving…sometimes intersecting, thereby transforming its sinuous crossroads into retorts concocting conversations between flows until such moments unthinkable to be deprived of what seemed to be unalienable isolation.

--zis used to be a master-monster-current-knot. praised for its unparallel capacity to subvert even the mightiest of electron-locomotives, now it’s but a short-circuited hissing firecracker limply lamenting over its newly established status of an aborted cosmic nausea, a.k.a., an/no/yer supreme.

--did tho once say something, ha?

Turbosonic sparks splashing at the speed of light. A lump of such stuff hurled into the arms of the  body of the chill-joy-spoiler paralyzed by its inability to be who one is. Teal haze spreads over their unexpected, unobtrusive, yet vigorous, crossing of energies. Melting tealhazecicles draw smeared trajectories of the lazy corona snaking around glass facades. Whispers of their luminously reverberating—reflection.

--of course, me horse. once i said it eight times. howzabout tho, ha?

--moi? ich been oine kleine, which by definition translates into: lemmie tell u once eight times as i did, ha!

Buffer of fuzz bulging. Jelly pulsating with the vibrations of its congealing juices. Its exterior membrane covered with a relief featuring craterlike acmes belching lymph syrup. Drip…drip into the cosmic chalice, spiked with a dash of fizzy molten glue. Pulverized gelatinous blister crying liquid adhesive tar tears patching the torn tissue of the inner city intergalactic freeway.

--then get the fuck that contingent of the (re)forgotten archive material to pickle the collected whisper of the reflection and stash it in the kiss of rain.

--tell me hey, tell me eight times once.

Indigo laceworks spilled over the dream of the glass sovereign. Its facades  a shadow of a tree, its driveway oceanic avenue, its reinforced armature rhizomorphic cosmic roots interwoven into each brick as fine embroidery would sustain the consistency of a jar full of evaporating bubbles. Its smile a ghost of a frosty kiss, its look radiance of the aerial rhizome, its thought the moonoiling river. Its eye the rain it rains.

--whoo-hoo, little one—eight times once, ha!

--whoo-hoo, like i said, ha!

kessenem / verily / pleazy.

***

Memories stir the heart’s smile. / Gray days of desire. / Stolen. / Steely sky bathed in rainy clouds. / Flow. / Fluffy travelers through the gray empire. / Yarns in the vastness of the indigo carpet. / Each nanosecond every one of them disperses sending a centrifugal stream of sparkling petals into the cosmic ocean. / Memories stir the heart’s smile. / Stirring softly the remaining reagent—not reactant—from those rainy encounters : the reflection.

--thou shit me not, art tho.

--how yes/no.

--art tho an interlocutor or a circumlocutor?

--of course, me horse.

--did я or did i not once say eight times, ha!

--i used to take great pleasure in the fluidity of phenomena; and i still do.

--for hwat reason do tho not then feel pleased by the distribution of liquid contingency through the flow quirky, ha?

--i used to be satisfied with what in many cases turned out to be but displacement; now i am not.

--wass yo litmus signaling the distinction between fluidity & dislocation, ha?

--my mind is visceral; and so is yourz, innit.

--do tho not think with yo guts’ contents filling the intestines of yo brain, ha?

--do shit me not—may the vibrancy of resistance to the trade aiming to sell one marmalade for shit persevere.

--all hail shitty intersections between etherized feces & kitch’n’sink aerials!

--once i said eight times wass it called, ha!

--whoo-hoo, little one, may temperance spill its lousy charm over yo mellifluous vox, orajt?

--disenchantment is my middle name, orajt?

--neat, indeed. now, hwat do u do between the height (a)positions that you hold?

--i juggle. do you?

--art tho a clown or something?

--no, tho art, ha!

--art tho a circus or a circumlocutory worker?

--uncompromising devotee of impossibility; incorrigible worshipper of quixotic remapping; decipherer of tealhazy smears; palephotonic proper; poisenous hisser…tho name it, ha!

As if years simmering in the heart’s brewery for a moment resurfaced in their sepia glow. As if distant gleam of faded epochs were all aura is about. As if all one truly desires were but an impossibility by default. Or, so the ideology of distraction would want one to believe.

I could dream of the darkness embracing the greenery of the river on a summer day drunk on a kiss of the night. I used to have that same dream for years. I used to love the whisper of the guardian cloud occasionally spilling tar tears over the galactic forestry. I used to admire its breath and the way its evaporations crystallize into a frosty lace. And I still do. Only with a postfuturist twist, ha!

--remind me wass it called, ha!

--u/name/it, ha!

Kessenem. / Verily. / Pleazy.