on a radial transit line from a common metropolis’ center, usual fragments are heard from the whonyms. i do have a large wardrobe, she says to her. there’s a starbucks sign there, he says to her. is there a ticket counter anywhere here, they say to them. we all inexorably turn into clichés of ourselves, it says to itself.
this is every city. the clouds that hang here will be hung there.
i remember you, hung like a cloud on privilege, your only virtue clothes. i have said it before and i will say it again and i will return to the saying of it – i would like to stay on a train forever, stops like competent jam and disinterested sex. but the dude six seats away clears his throat every minute as if he’s the steam engine trying itself out for the first time and i would rather be a very large parking ticket or an abandoned temple.
attention ladies and gentlemen. we have stopped momentarily to allow another train to pass. once it does we will continue to our next station stop. thank you for your patience and understanding.
ladies and gentlemen? patience and understanding? i am buried alive by euphemisms.
these projects of our species – whether large and visible, humanitarian and noble, common and behind small doors – join in silent songs of smoke from the concentration camp of society. i only wish to wander and forget. forget that once i could forget.
the city – the whonym soul in visible form – is 95% waste and tedium, the other 5% a mouth chomping on the products of the waste and tedium. so i slog through the suburbs and warehouses of myself to chomp on myself. an urban and barely visible life.
the circus is fallen from the heavens and we each are painted workers in it and why not celebrate such immanent grandiloquence of industry and entertainment and paint?
but i paint graves. paint them using used cans of words found in the singing garbage of myself.
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