more than matcha

the city is love in abstract embodiment. i wear the city. i program it to pulse and sing. it replaces my skin. the whonym is nostalgic for itself, for meat . it runs from its cradle of circuits and sensors, actuators and switches, flees to the comforts of the tomb. i love the city in the way i love love and so love myself (my they, that i, those you’s, the city becomes). when i walk in the city i walk in i and do not leave, for there is no leaving. look at the mobiles above my crib, above my non-existent suffering. i twirl them with what is not there, they light and dance with the microcontrollers of my urban epidermis.

so i conclude that my skin is love and the city just an excuse for me to realize this.

the city is a mushroom and i am a mushroom too. one moment not-there, the next moment there, one moment there, …

the city thrives on decay and grows from the corpse of god. we are enchanted beings from a cartoon world, feeding off death and bursting with vibrant life. we smell like bleach, soap, cheese, marzipan, spice, flowers, fruit, iodine, ink, cucumbers, mice, burnt hair, aniseed, sawdust, fish, over-ripe pears, goats, acetylene gas, crab, radishes, honey, dead animal, rubber, garlic, rotten cabbage, machine oil, bitter almonds, natural gas, coconut, apricots, flour, potatoes, curry. we smell like mushrooms.

i go foraging in the city, filling my basket with phoneme fungi.  the mushrooms of the world grow in clusters, dropping their spores into the soil of memory.

the mushroom is love and i am chitin and we wear the city like a dream more potent and sensuous than reality. i play in my playpen and the city and i are lovers in an unread play.