Offscapes - Beyond the Limits of Urban Landscape

132 Beyond the limits of urban landscape

V mov.: Le lune di Saturno (saturnalia)

Three little girls grew tired of this in Balashikha but not the short-sighted omnipotence of the conservative former minister freely promising to everyone happiness, even to billions of Chinese and Indians (and then he dies just like a dog like everyone else): the same promise made to a handful of Jews (all dead and buried for generations) by a god counting minutes and money. If ever there were such a god, he would deserve to be dead, extinguished not in embers, but in ashes, consumed and fallen upon the shoulders of every righteous people. Under an iron sky of solid clouds with the colour of a hostile glance (no Ovid ever saw any like this) what is permanence, the memory of wrongdoing, the justice of history, the mockery of an exile’s lament? and what value do you read in the landscape, torn to pieces, a rotten garden mud feeding diseased roots: will this ruin then generate summer? the Feasts of March cry on the windowpanes and chill the eyes, raindrops on the sea, poison in the wind on the irises, geraniums, in a chameleon garden, toad hedges at the far end of the room, slimy horror, morbid cadence. Under a white sky slave to disillusion, in a landscape of ice and silence, a snow flake floated down slowly: erratic torment, sweet grace, this is the day I always wait for, a spiral transforming every substance, the eye distracted, the step oblique, tense, crispé , crouched up, stooping, halted on the verge of change on the brink of horizons dark and livid like a burnished steel blade? a sordid thrill of eternities

a spark, a Siberian whirlwind, static deformation of the air,