Tuesday, May 29

The Ouroboros Project #16 - The Endless

{Today's poem was written whilst on an hour long train ride to Chiba. It's...a tad wacky, but hopefully you can see some threads of thought and maybe even ascertain what was happening on this trip.}

“Ladies and gentlemen,” my robot chides. This is the place, here, now, with a mumble mumble and. And. Aaaaand… She’s out, her microphone thudding softly on her forehead, eyes seal forever, eyes sealed forever. So inactive. Concrete river, concrete sides. And then from the shadows a towering mass metal glass beasty rears its maw, teeth creeking, salivatory rust dripping from shiny pinpoint teeth. Then, his foe, the gnome with his pointy hat creeping skyward; an inanimate serpent watching me tumble by, bumble by, ready to strike. They battle in the distance now, forgotten. Then, in a lonely station, an empty news leaf circles circles in the tired supposedly irradiated wind. And these greys are clouding in too, graying down, no storm today, no liquid tunnel washing the concrety concrete river of the things Japanese people abuse. Whip crack taboo, nothing to do, nothing to lose, in the tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel tunnel. Geez, it never ends (faux anger fanger). Slow slow times in the never-ending sheet of black. Not a word to drop. But newspaper still circles in the silence and then there’s me and this guy. “Shhhhh.” The man, with the inconspicuous hat glares at me across the station. We are alone and his hand shuffles in his trench coat pocket – uh, aggressively at that. We. Are. Alone. Out it comes the never ending rifle-barrel and I shudder (again) shudder (again) shudder (again) – regain composure and the rifle is still coming, meter after meter the longest barrel in the world damn it. He points it at me but the slender cylinder is still sliding out of his pocket into the unknown, yeah, his crotch under fire. He could blow it right off and I’m told he will pull the trigger, soon. He knows it, he knows it, he do, he do. Microphone thud thud thud. She didn’t even wake up. His finger is still on the trigger, gentle crease caress, no, “not yet,” he says, gun barrel still poking out of his, oh, pants now. It really doesn't bode well for trench coat man. Light strikes as the trigger is pulled out of the shadow, the sun sweat tune, crack in the stillness, the silent bullet mangles him and most parts of him disappear into the noir noir noir dream. Go solve a fucking case Colombo. Sharsharshar. And now bridges stretch away from me, left and right as he departs. Weird metamorphosis, weird child, left is night and right is wild. My friend’s friend’s friend comes and sits next to me and mutters something about all roads leading to Rome. She adds that we may have to stop at several million houses for coffee on the way. Sounds like a plan we echo echo, horizon yellow-ing before our eyes. And we shall eat bread, half the recommended dose of Holy Communion. Yes, yes, red wine will not be necessary today – yellow through and through, through and through, brown liquid communion stew. Thirty minutes before the end of the end – the beginning of end’s grief, of that big mistake that you will repeat into infinitum. You know, that one that robbed you of being a man. The concrete swathe interjects; Colombo’s muttering, cluttering and spluttering – smaller and smaller going this time. He has a bayonet! Hey steady on, steady on Bayonet Betty … he is smiling this time though and Bayonet Betty isn’t for me. Hey, speaking of BB. Then comes the grit, grey comes dome, somber, help me to undertake  this empty test, well how about this? Take your hands and raise them in the air. Clap. Beat. Come on, that’s it, be with me, in the rain sheet tumbling together in the dripping bedclothes of the words the words. Be with me, companion as it is you I wish to suckle – no no, not in that way; nurture, nurture, further, further, searcher please be oh, holy holy. She walks by again. Damn, I really wanted that sweetness, moments ago, I asked for it. But you know, there really is no difference between trust and faith – it's like comparing a donut with a muffin – both are… I trust you agree. Oh? Looks like I was wrong. Colombo doesn’t have an opinion. Neither does Microphone Annie, Bayonet Betty and the Meandering Zoo. And at that the monkey screams because the cockerels were singing out of tune. Disagreeably so. Hippo wasn’t even paying attention. He was just yarning with his chums like Bird soup and Toledo Toe. Monkey has a point though; none of them have looked out the window for months. Holy shit, look at that, it’s not man-made, nor is it divine. It just spires into the grey sky, crisp hard white ivory’s shame into the clouds. Is it coming down or going up? It could be static – it’s not at all! Down come the minions, spiraling down an impromptu staircase. Round and round – they’re here for us. They bring an everlasting heat that breaks up, melts down the concrete river snaking along besides us, sparks lifting into the air like Offering Surprise baked by a lonely house wife. And now we have a river of fire – nay – flames. It runs through the new green fields, lush  trees glowing orange in reflection-refraction, mellifluously. It’s not evil, this tower of white, Ivory’s bitch, Black’s bastion, Scarlett’s dreams, Colombo’s sweaty brow, oh, she does too. Newspapers still circle the empty, malevolent stations, dust now too. In winter, the flaming river turns to ice, icicle peaks reaching gently in the air, perfect slides for jolly penguins. But, sadly, they aren’t native to these parts and they would probably be eaten, lucky for the penguin, yes, I am still waiting for them. And onward we slip and bump, skate and tumble, foot loose and fallen coming to halt at this brief new home. As I walk off, Microphone Annie, Colombo, Bayonet Betty and her Meandering Zoo, monkey the gang with their new friend surfer penguin etc wave invisibly and point and laugh at my stomach.

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