V What?
The star in the tree sparkled. The smile sunshowered
the constellations. The air melted the cloud.
He is sitting on a bar stool. Facing him, strings of
figures flooding the screen. Around him, tables surrounded by chairs. Sitting
the frequenters of the venue. They might be sipping on their tea. They might be
engaging in conversations with others. The spaces might be filled with the
sound from the stereo. Coffee machines might be in full swing. Baristas might
be multitasking. There might be those who finished their light meal and are
leaving, while those ready to indulge a hot drink and delicious pastry are
entering. There may be a street outside the venue. It could be crammed with
steps and streams of vehicles. Going somewhere. Carrying someone. There could
be a plastic jungle all around. There could also be a silicone dome overarching
the scenery. There could be the river. None of it could be detected by the eye
firmly fixated on the screen. On the strings of figures. Coz those figures
matter. They require undivided attention. Total presentness. Their magnetic
power is ensured by their capacity to be transformed into a value that any
vurtual card swiping machine worthy of its role can recognize. He sees that
possibility in each and every titillation of the digital tapestry absorbing the
color of his eyes, the shape of his thoughts, the being of his whole being. He
is monitoring that dynamic closely. Not even a minor fluctuation of their
versatile appearances is left unnoticed. He is not those strings, but he nearly
wishes he could be. He nearly wishes for it each and every nanosecond of his
waking hours. He dreams of it whilst asleep. His days are time when the screen
is not the only source of light. His nights are the time when, in addition to
the light from the screen, he may or may not switch on a lamp. His universe is
that peculiar site. He inhabits it. He is committed.
The star in the tree sparkled. The smile sunshowered
the constellations. The air melted the cloud.
She may or may not notice the glass wall that she
passes by carried by the rhythmic clanking, as the heals of her stilettos demarcate
her trajectory leaving behind the glass wall shielding a bar laced with bar
stools. She may or may not be aware of the beehive constituted by the friction
leather soles cause in contact with a rough concrete surface, by boots dragging
along the pebbles covered path, by sneakers rubbing its freshly molded gummy
bumpers on styrofoam scattered all around. There might be a plastic forest
where she walks. There might be a silicone dome overarching her steps. There
could be the river. There may be zillions of paths crossing the one she walks.
There could be other walkers walking them. There could be buildings. Their
facades might be telling stories of the reflection snaking around them. Licking
their decrepit peel. Whispering their shiny dreams. She is too busy busying
herself in the business of a facilitator of steps to notice any of it. Her
whole being is. Coz those steps matter. They require undivided attention. Total
presentness. Their magnetic power is based on their capacity to transform
energy into space. She sees that possibility in each titillation of the
mollycules veiling her as she is progressing carried by those steps each and
every nanosecond of her waking hours. At night, she dreams of them. She is not
those steps, but she nearly wishes she could be. The orbits of the planets
populating her galaxies are drawn by the rhythmic sound that delineates her
days and fashions her nights. Her universe is those peculiar movements. She
inhabits it. She is dedicated.
The star in the tree sparkled. The smile sunshowered
the constellations. The air melted the cloud.
He feels the delicate touch of the silk lining
enveloping his whole being as he is progressing keeping himself busy wearing
the suit whose inner cover is but an infinitesimal portion of the charm that
constitutes what he does, how he moves, where he looks, when he turns. The serge
protecting it from wearing off is moving like a peacock priding its might. There
may be T-shirts all around. Trousers, slacks, jeans to match jackets, skirts to
accompany tights. There might be a plastic jungle where the suit is. There
might be a silicone dome overarching its moves. There might be the river. He’d
persistently ignore those potential distractions. His suit is days hiding the
moon during his waking hours. His suit is nights bathing his dreams of it. He
wears it with all attention it requires, which is undivided. He wears it with
all attentiveness it requires, which is total. He wears it with all alert it
requires, which is maximum. His whole being does. Total presentness. Coz that
suit matters. Its magnetic power lies in its capacity to turn material into a
feel. He sees that possibility in each increment of the thread, each rut
connecting the yarns. That’s what he does, and that’s all he does. More than
that is impossible, less than that is undesirable. He is not that suit, but he
nearly wishes he could be. Satellites of the planets constituting his galaxies are
mirrored in the patterns decorating that suit. His universe is that peculiar
fabric. He inhabits it. He is a disciple.
--committed to what?
--dedicated to what?
--disciple of what?
: mannerz first, for phunk sake!
/
five seven nine six V eight 4 one three…bull run…five seven nine six V eight 4 one three …bull run…five seven
nine six V eight 4 one three …ctrl +
c / ctrl + v…five seven nine six V eight
4 one three …bull run…five seven nine six V eight
4 one three …bull run…five seven nine six V eight
4 one three …ctrl + x / ctrl + v…(the
river told me a story)…five seven nine six V eight 4 one three…five seven nine six V eight 4 one three
: likephunkmafotherphunkiephunk -- mannerz
first, for fuck sake!
clank, rub, swish…kinetic and static reconfigured…clank,
rub, swish…what is passed by are merely passing images…clank, rub, swish…in the
universe whose center steps are everything else is the orbits of irrelevant
planets…clank, rub, swish…those galaxies are black holes’ fog…clank, rub,
swish…transient scenes drifting around the center…clank, rub, swish…(the river told me a story)…clank,
rub, swish…clank, rub, swish
: likephunkmafotherphunkiephunk -- mannerz
first, for fuck sake!
thread-yarn-seam…weave, weave,
weave…thread-yarn-seam…weave, weave,
weave…thread-yarn-seam…fabric…thread-yarn-seam…weave, weave,
weave…thread-yarn-seam…weave, weave, weave…thread-yarn-seam…(the river told me a story)…dew
caking…thread-yarn-swish…fragile branches…thread-yarn-swish…like smoky
veiling…like foggy aura…like a dreamy kiss…
: like
phunk!
***
Sometimes, I wish I could tell someone just how sad that
screen would feel, how lonely the path, how dislocated haberdashery. If they
could. I wish I could tell someone a tale of quirkiness, a tale of solace. I’d
say that the sky was turning purple when I cast a reflection of my eye on it.
My eye was sinking into the darkening wide open spaces conquering the world
within this plethora of worlds. My thoughts were being saturated with that
prevalent ink blanket covering the stars paved trajectories. I was rocking to
the rhythm of the swaying shadow of the moon spilled over the spiky leaves. My
eye was becoming increasingly bright as the indigo conquest was being dissolved
in the milkish marinade. The sky was becoming orange when the reflection of my
increasingly light eye kissed it. I wish I could tell it to someone. I wish it
were now. Mighty / stately castle. Listening to the wings of the wind. Whispering
the words poured out of the mischievous droplets.
: like
phunk!
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