Phantom
Cities : Dystopian Tyranny
There is a layer underneath sunlit skies. That’s
upholstering consisting of brown-golden leaves and steely corridors through
dazzling lights. It is the layer that dulls scorchingly blinding severity of
photon packages. It fragmentizes those light-loaded cohorts into finetuned
tendrils: miniscule aerials softly glimmering, gently fluttering into the
cosmic ocean tales of darkness, tales of quirkiness : the message of that what
spreads.
***
: mannerz 1st, foYr fuck sake!
/ :
yo
cymbalness : may ye mellifluous tone of yo vibrant voice ocean the façades of
ye city rhizome.
: kessenem sepen.
/ :
pleazy.
Verily.
***
Like an airport hosting no planes, like a harbor
with no ships, like stars yearning for the constellation – objects unsure of
their purposes – sites of gloom, sites of void : of that what spreads.
When greasy concoction consisting of halfrotten
leaves--spiked with fumes fused into a cloud’s liquid puke--and soil palette
smearing the paste along a green valley--caked with crystallized oxygen--hacks
a chunk of a day ravished by unlikely gaseous fluctuations, avenues echo the
vacuity of the eye seeking phantom sites. In steely corridors shadowed by interstellar
cold, tales of the past are no more phantoms of the present than the present is
unrecognizable to itself. When grey concrete carpets covering the avenues are
nothing but surfaces for the wind to roll its capricious dusty vortexes, then a
cloud’s shower vomit is no less than ghostly consolation to the hollowness of
abandoned streets. Streets abandoned by its past, streets unfamiliar with its
present. Planet of phantom cities. The city of numberless worlds. Their stories
meet in unlikely labyrinths. Their voices vibrate, resonate. The words sneaking
from the enslavement by oblivion re-constitute its face. It is clear and it
radiates -- like phunk!
***
: manners first, for fuck sake!
/ :
yo
cymbalness : may ye crappy crystalz solidified from golden tearz encrust the
green carpet caressing the valley’s wide open spaces.
: kessenem sepen.
/ :
pleazy.
Verily.
***
A summer morning by the seaside. Breath enriched
with a whiff of salty air. Vision decorated
with gentle pale pink oleander petals, as their smeared traces across
the crispy air draw hazy curves along palm lined bents and swerves.
As each inch of the road is being gradually
conquered, morning freshness is being enhanced by a promise of the summer noon.
Crispiness melting as the coastal flora meets concrete guardians of urban
b-hieve.
The road salutes the city, leaks into the web of its
crossroads, traffic lights, adjacent alleys, hidden lanes, buzzy sidewalks. The
ghost of the oleander haze adheres to the shop window. Pale pink turns into a
lilac whisper. Torpor, heavily lidding the looks of the objects decorating the
inside of the shop window, tells a tale of numberless summer noons embodied in
what once upon a time used to be a sine-qua-non
of a household proper : a fireplace. At night, it would breathe the smell
of photon-sustained green factories of mighty oxygen : forestry constellations.
During the day, it would doze along, reviving, re-constituting energies to tell
by night tales of noons, tales of summer : oceanic web, photon stash.
: kessenem sepen.
/ :
pleazy.
In the stately castle, a reflection from the lilac
smudged shop window spills a dollop of milkish contingent turning the surface
of the table into a titillating digitized swarm. A splash of staticky hiss
scorches the current galloping through obedient cords.
A dystopian dream haunting civilization since the
times primordial smuggles itself in a nanobyte package through the connectors
spanning the trajectory from the shop window melting with weariness and liquid
crystal display stirring floppy droplets, fluid blisters, bubbles of condensed
pixilated signal.
Optical fiber cable, like a gobetween in that great
cosmic swindle, transmits chunks of ones & zeros to the vomiting grotto
safeguarding the surface of the pride of the room. The table, typically hosting
an array of plates, silver, vessels, and accessories, is being usurped by dystopian
dream imagery.
Dystopian fantasy imagery threatens to devour civilization
since the time primordial. Its goal is to rewrite its past, hack the present, block reimagining
future. It is its own nightmare sucking its corrosive spleen into sulfur
vortexes. It paints the world in the colors of sanitized tyranny : bars like pharmacies,
cafes like laboratories / smoke-free planet.
: kessenem sepen.
/ :
pleazy.
-when i was once three, i thought it was my name;
now i know it is.
--wow 2 tho three looking.
Your dreams are like stars : they are everywhere.
Verily.
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