Offscapes - Beyond the Limits of Urban Landscape

146 Beyond the limits of urban landscape

J.: “A tragic bimillennial winter, loaded and swollen by a foggy pathos, hoary beard and ancient rhetoric petty, reactionary, malicious anger, flabby and asthmatic old song, it does not fall silent for a moment, nor gives a break the dull and deaf fanfare of the baroque bandwagon of the sun as it expresses dumb satisfaction, the skin very shiny and taut. While the flesh helplessly wanders around, dreams, gets drenched and drips blood, is covered in shame, lies lifeless, rotting, down on the shining floor, wasting the clarity of well-defined clean empty space, delineated by the geometrical lines of rooms: these rooms of mine, and these words

Now Johnette has something in mind …

J.: “Crossroads of vertical and horizontal lines and intercontinental airlines, precise metal lanes, solid steel tracks for Titans along very long intersecting lines; just an insect, a small point

and then it is useless to calculate the difference that runs between the normal incident line when two airplanes collide perhaps a Concorde and a 747 in a concordant orange embrace on the greedy sea the vast ocean (circular hug on the boundary of reason, of the world, of the sense

that defines us and forces us beyond any logical precision)

silly-jingled (so satisfying), well furnished (so satisfying to gnaw every second, go

then they can populate the sleep and even in the city, downtown, corpses re-emerge in rivers they look at us from under the bridges while we go enjoy ourselves and have fun: their faces distorted in agony, their bodies misery of pain. At the end in our faces the traits of the grimace

along and then remain in a song, ad libitum continuation of a key)…

we remain the illegal immigrants of life, always hidden in the darkness of the holds of the great, luxury ocean liners in the paresseuse shadow of serviettes and curtains of chic first class restaurants; bites of rats, eternal ambition of the seconds,

of suffering will be carved: we will look at each other suspiciously, and we will have to strive, and prove to ourselves that we are all still in and that their death does not affect a world of well expressed values…

pass and pass, and go along… now stop do not be so greedy, let him do his dirty job with the accuracy of microchip,

according to the order (satisfaction) that traces shipping routes, draws series, sequences of exact calculations, iteration and reproduction, with precision and accuracy (without passion and any more illusions) but with an exact destination)”

while al night sirens will howl flashes of blue, yellow, or red

among the green, even greener at a late hour, (small lights in the dark) and then we will have to look at the dark night of time”