Blatnii Mir
Trains across the ceramic landscape moved silently through the urine, soot and scraps of wire, stronghold of the machine age, revolutionary rhythm of industrial clubs where you could hear the metal hum.
Statements were made. Statements were taken. Quotes appeared on the pale skin of barbed wire fences, the harsh and erotic point where pain and beauty meet.
What is this book where the pictures speak? Rhythm of the needle, industrial chemicals where once the scent of illegal blossoms drifted off into sunrise dreams.
What is this train station, Gare de Lyon, where they demand "Billet! Billet!" before Les Flic do their work? He had a ticket to the other side of life, blood and ink passport, pale skin of barbed wire fences.
What was this train station where the sting and the neural hum followed him, where the bloodied gauze peeled back in revelation? Circle of mannequins, and a closed coffee shop. Was he the only one there with a purpose?
What was this train station, transit point, where he awoke in cold sweat silence, rolled up his sleeves where text and context combined to define a world of the moment, movement without time? Do you really think it's a newspaper? Do you really think he'd sleep in a train station that hadn't been painted by Italian Metaphysical artists?
The boards clicked letters and numbers, rolling metal wheels, rolling like a dusty newspaper in the draft of an open train station door, rolling like a sign, a symbol or just this moment in time.
He touched the pale skin of his arm, felt the Braille quotes of dead poets and kicked the wind-blown headlines from his feet.
The smudged newspaper debris, the spinning mannequins, the statements, the quotes.
Only those with alphabets could read the ink stained signs.
Only those with persistent needles could feel the Braille roadmap through the night.
Trains across the ceramic landscape moved silently through the urine, soot and scraps of wire, stronghold of the machine age, revolutionary rhythm of industrial clubs where you could hear the metal hum.
Statements were made. Statements were taken. Quotes appeared on the pale skin of barbed wire fences, the harsh and erotic point where pain and beauty meet.
What is this book where the pictures speak? Rhythm of the needle, industrial chemicals where once the scent of illegal blossoms drifted off into sunrise dreams.
What is this train station, Gare de Lyon, where they demand "Billet! Billet!" before Les Flic do their work? He had a ticket to the other side of life, blood and ink passport, pale skin of barbed wire fences.
What was this train station where the sting and the neural hum followed him, where the bloodied gauze peeled back in revelation? Circle of mannequins, and a closed coffee shop. Was he the only one there with a purpose?
What was this train station, transit point, where he awoke in cold sweat silence, rolled up his sleeves where text and context combined to define a world of the moment, movement without time? Do you really think it's a newspaper? Do you really think he'd sleep in a train station that hadn't been painted by Italian Metaphysical artists?
The boards clicked letters and numbers, rolling metal wheels, rolling like a dusty newspaper in the draft of an open train station door, rolling like a sign, a symbol or just this moment in time.
He touched the pale skin of his arm, felt the Braille quotes of dead poets and kicked the wind-blown headlines from his feet.
The smudged newspaper debris, the spinning mannequins, the statements, the quotes.
Only those with alphabets could read the ink stained signs.
Only those with persistent needles could feel the Braille roadmap through the night.