inscrutable malice

in the way that some avert their eyes when passing the ugly on sidewalks, in malls, i avert mine for the beautiful … who’ve become clichéd in the city. as beauty and rarity share blood in the bodies i admire, the ugly has become beautiful, a reconfiguring required by system changes in the universal hardware. (is your flesh set to autodownload?)

true also for the young, who dominate the city like termites. i dream of the old, who hide their loveliness in the wrinkled labia of television. only they have few tomorrows on the sidewalks, wrapping the gift of death in their faces like plums at the top of hades’ plum trees. but the young – they talk incessantly of their stupid lives, saying everything that’s been said, thinking it’s new because of the gadgets, thinking they’re intelligent because the billboards tell them they’re beautiful, thinking they’re powerful because of wisdom’s scandal … the young! … reeking of life – life! … which is everywhere, relentless, boring, which i iself possess (with neither regret nor joy) in immeasurable doses. the ugly, the old, the poor (shall we talk of the poor?) – their faces are universities, their eyes dreams always on the cliffs of coming-true.

so at two in the morning on the sweaty streets when the young and beautiful and moneyed raise the flag of time on their flesh, i(, caught between langwich’s categories like a fish between a polluted river and an aquarium), usurping a little nomadic space for my peculiar purposes, see nothing but my seeking for faces that will soon enough have left the circus of air, cradling knowledge, seeing in their preparation for departure an unrivalled circuitry, sparking births, plum trees bellowing carols, a premonition of an equality in a court expelled from history for some technicality.

the old, poor, ugly are exiled from the republic of gazing (which is a kind of grazing for eyes). but these aristocrats of death should be the chosen in gazing’s kingdom. the old, for example, forbidden, retreat from eyes (there are penalties) – and this during that particular arc of the circle when they are most curious about the living – when they ask what is this breath about? where have i been and am? what are these others, fresh from the assembly line, shiny like cars? we long to suck serotonin from the pupils of the young, these replacements, these scabs.

{they’re not exiled but grazing in other gazings}

born from Laptop and City is i – baby i’s made to weather a whonymly-dubious technology, to roll themselves interminably uphill, to brand light from the ass of darkness, to …

… but shall we talk of the poor?

{the poor shall always be in you}