(Even though I’m no longer in New York, the story of 12 of its streets must continue. Here’s Chapter IV. Words and Photography by Yours Truly.)
“The sky is a landfill.
I see you take another drag.” Jeff Buckley, The Sky Is A Landfill
“HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME.” T.S. Eliot, The Wasteland
Beneath a timorous sky it trembles
Electric blue flanking Tudor red
Where is this Paradise of which we seek?
Put down your swords, they say
Put down your plowshares too
Come, divest yourself of your vestments
And let’s dance naked beneath the pagan moon.
Vapors vanishing, vacuous, vacillating
Where is resolution?
Only effort: copious bloodletting like Sweeney
The illusions of charity sweep over latter-day dons
While down South, heads are lopped off:
Trophies in Darfur;
Bombs raining in Damascus.
There is no city. Only broken reflections;
Of towering ziggurats
Flickering like a lightbulb.
Lost in the twilight, the child looks up
Beneath a clamorous sky it cringes
Shades of basalt and grey
Answers become questions
And questions lead to dead ends.
There are too many SECRETS IN STONE:
Of Anthropocene dealings
Laced with grief
I forget which is which.
These exigent letters and filigreed sentences,
Slumbering away Eternity.
I met a man
Who reminded me of a man I once met
And who stood there staring at the intricate play of light
And the rapturous sprawl of the constellations overhead.
And he said, “I am.”
And he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye
As if to say,
Don’t you believe a word of it.
And the truth shall make you free.”
We do not desire freedom per se
But the freedom to oppress.
And I realised that I wasn’t in the same scene;
This one being mere facade,
Sleight of hand,
LIGHTS AND MAGIC;
Pictures at an exhibition
It is time! It is time! It is time!
We must hurry! We must hurry! We must hurry!
Where are we racing to?
Where everyone else is racing to of course!
To our own hasty demise.
Swinging spiders and green goblins
Of armed men on their steeds,
In this world, anything goes,
Beneath an execrable sky it extends
Of giant undersea lava towers
Seething with crabs, eels and other deep-sea critters
Between these swim the humpback whales.
How do we make nutrients
From this infertile expanse?
With much effort, my dear,
So no one else notices
The toxic sick we regurgitate elsewhere.
“I am” being “I have.”
We store so much and discard so much
And yet we keep accumulating
With no concern for where this exuberance may lead.
Yes, that would be the solution.
Let them deal with it, the little shits.
Are we there yet?
Are we ever going to get there?
Are we there yet?
No seriously, are we there?
And we never will.
“There” simply doesn’t exist.
A tragic circle
An infinity of stasis.
Download the post here: Chapter IV – 43rd Street, UNREAL CITY