the city is a plant chanting aestheticized death. it tastes of rich charcoal, burnt cinnamon, dried war, ground percolated voids, de-oranged orange, fogs, cult crisps, horses, windfallen scams, forgotten obscenities
i travel through windows to a shaman’s corpse and receive from its bones the city in liquid form. drinking, in slow blue ritual, for in this way the ocean drinks the river
the plant of langwich gushes in the city’s shade. shaitans, cops, artists, managers, scholars, the mad are flowers forbidden knowledge but through the book of ritual
who shall stand behind the mixer of polyphonic silence? and who shall sit at the console of darkness and light? the city and the corpse shall be our choreographers, i shall have been a radar in these heats of sound
do not ask details of the city’s botany, its nutritional facts. you cannot pluck it, seed it on your sill, purchase it at nurseries. i drink it thick and brown like gods. it grows in me
so i am ground and sky of the city, this city a plant, no ground
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