The city has put on new mirrors. It needs to see itself clearly - those dents on blackened skins which cosmetics can't obscure, or those deep down perforations and creases which Botox can't obliterate, those crimson blotches running down the length of spine like ants without a sense of direction, or those million more granules and scars on nubile wrists and dry vaginas, and those spaces between broken toes where secrets are tucked with sheer desperation. The city can not see all by itself, it needs new eyes. Not fresh, just new pixels. The mirrors, tiny, scurry along the cracks and rough edges, occasionally. But mostly, they follow hues and gaiety, cheers amid confusion, silkscreens and sunshines, glows and glitters and gleams. It needs to remind itself of the how happy it is, since it is so very essential. It needs its stockpile of essential hallucinogens. It needs its MBs of routine memories.
So the city has aligned itself with the masses, 'cause everyone says so. It is grappling for breath in order to stay afloat, in order to find base. The flashing mirrors are churning out deluge of visions, with every wink of finger and drop of gasp; but you need something more permanent. Because you never cared to retain, you just went by the tide.
Men, women and wanderers populated the thoroughfares. Simple men, regular women, and madmen/necessary lunatics. They needed new destinations. They needed bright dresses. Gaudy bedsheets and counterfeit chinos, uneven stilettos and hopes. At least they were real. They knew what they wanted, and they saved every penny of their desires. The city caught the first train from downtown and landed itself in holiday's market. Where the simplicity is not yet marred by opulent desires.
Beyond the busy streets are silent lanes where corrugated sheets and labyrinthine sewage pipes lie in a dream long asleep. Marxist fallacies share communal space with muttonchops and soot-stained economy. People move in slow paces, care only about neighbor's allergies, or watertanks and telly's agony. Magnified cut-outs hide broken pillars and their muted heritage. The cut-outs shout, "Wake up, yeh fools, the carnival is here!" Glistening faces usher you to the orgy of sensual blasphemies. Adverts slap you left right up and straight. Economy is shining, up in those streetlights and monstrous hoardings. Face-packs tobacco derivatives fizz drinks embellishments things of no need things of consumer make-belief things of forced preferences things you think make you elated. Nails hammers bamboos vinyls glowsigns flexes plastics - so much for self-gratification. The city's veins are populated with faces who are proud, proud of having found a meaning to stay smiling, smiling as they found a chance to remain happy, happy because everyone else too is trying to do the same. Ganges trembles at this temerity. A lonely footwear lies unadorned. Red blood smells of fresh chickens. Dried leaves have been shooed off since they brought to much dull into the canvas; the ascetics found a kick on the crotch as the polluted the lush landscape of general jubilation. The mirrors, and their minds, shamelessly watched Her dress with the minimal simplistic attire She can truly afford. They thought it was all a cosmic celebration. They shook the beggars and lonely tarpaulins, "Wake up, yeh fools, the carnival is here!"
Phantasmagoria. The city ached in silence, retreated its steps back to forlorn palaces and watched its body twisting in the vile carnival, of dust.
So the city has aligned itself with the masses, 'cause everyone says so. It is grappling for breath in order to stay afloat, in order to find base. The flashing mirrors are churning out deluge of visions, with every wink of finger and drop of gasp; but you need something more permanent. Because you never cared to retain, you just went by the tide.
Men, women and wanderers populated the thoroughfares. Simple men, regular women, and madmen/necessary lunatics. They needed new destinations. They needed bright dresses. Gaudy bedsheets and counterfeit chinos, uneven stilettos and hopes. At least they were real. They knew what they wanted, and they saved every penny of their desires. The city caught the first train from downtown and landed itself in holiday's market. Where the simplicity is not yet marred by opulent desires.
Beyond the busy streets are silent lanes where corrugated sheets and labyrinthine sewage pipes lie in a dream long asleep. Marxist fallacies share communal space with muttonchops and soot-stained economy. People move in slow paces, care only about neighbor's allergies, or watertanks and telly's agony. Magnified cut-outs hide broken pillars and their muted heritage. The cut-outs shout, "Wake up, yeh fools, the carnival is here!" Glistening faces usher you to the orgy of sensual blasphemies. Adverts slap you left right up and straight. Economy is shining, up in those streetlights and monstrous hoardings. Face-packs tobacco derivatives fizz drinks embellishments things of no need things of consumer make-belief things of forced preferences things you think make you elated. Nails hammers bamboos vinyls glowsigns flexes plastics - so much for self-gratification. The city's veins are populated with faces who are proud, proud of having found a meaning to stay smiling, smiling as they found a chance to remain happy, happy because everyone else too is trying to do the same. Ganges trembles at this temerity. A lonely footwear lies unadorned. Red blood smells of fresh chickens. Dried leaves have been shooed off since they brought to much dull into the canvas; the ascetics found a kick on the crotch as the polluted the lush landscape of general jubilation. The mirrors, and their minds, shamelessly watched Her dress with the minimal simplistic attire She can truly afford. They thought it was all a cosmic celebration. They shook the beggars and lonely tarpaulins, "Wake up, yeh fools, the carnival is here!"
Phantasmagoria. The city ached in silence, retreated its steps back to forlorn palaces and watched its body twisting in the vile carnival, of dust.
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