Just Like Robinson Crusoe

A fashionably late sky, as if we'd spent the entire millennium sipping brass-knuckle music, lightweight lingo alone. Of course, these things had a way of becoming completely kerosene-soaked, with astral links to funeral ships that anchored in desolate harbours, sprinkling their ooze in hungry, waiting mouths. From the xerox to gongs of fortune tittering at the riots to come, last rites patiently awaited the exquisite in dawn, savouring the quixotic to pass the time.

Violence and filth all that remains of the cosmopolitan imagination, bestial fours shattered in my mouth, snarling at red balloons overhead. Porno on the radio, buy a nubile for rallies designed to accentuate fear in rusted unison. Nothing more threatening than a moment of divine inspiration, I'm afraid. We failed to even notice the balding, middle-aged gentleman purchasing a chocolate-bar at the counter ahead of us, time-zones slipping slowly, inexorably from his jacket pocket. Retinal blasts emanating from screens placed strategically throughout the store did their job. He quietly walked away with several mint copies of our genetic code stored safely away in what was left of his penis.

Blood and synaptical degeneration written into billions of podcasts around the globe that night, the digital left blurred, chattering.

Lunar air-conditioning. Human shields doodle on the bus. the brave reemergence of electric guitars from beneath the concrete. All-night orgies promised to the radiant masses. Atomic television frozen, passively rounded up by the authorities and beaten with swaths of good morning.

We stumbled out together into the sweltering density of late-night traffic, bundles of pink clawing after our every step. Dogma still rules the chimps whispered in my ear. Your face illuminated by brief flashes chromatically, breathy, beautiful currency. Lavender impregnated, brilliant matches of biology and eye-shadowed geo-politics, symmetries left open in the pages of the city. My identity curled into ejaculate recycled from industrial strains of mercury. A howl of pain and loneliness struggling to stay put behind my warped teeth, winding up alongside the edge of noise.

Ideas dependent on absence for their substance.

Off the main boulevard, hollow steps never once engaging directly with the sixties of hyper-leisure. A bio-engineered madness left to fend for its life under the auspices of intricately-wired surveillance domes drunk and insane. Elvis could be seen bumming cigarettes on every street-corner, as if each individual musician in the orchestra was playing a different piece simultaneously as his eternal corpus. The pock-marks in that bartender's face were teeming mediations attempting to mutate into full, heavy breasts. The scent was overpowerig at times. No wonder most of the people drinking alone at the bar headed home before midnight to masturbate after furtively stuffing any and all floating data up the ass of passing network brunettes. Rowdy, drunken mechanical cobras swallowed our trail, grinning pure hate at our passing.

A deft kick to the minimal, chilled bottles of morass, lithe and muscular, retained the sound of a hastily unlocked door. Dreadlocks plastered liberally throughout our shared diaspora made us mad with lust. No more archery to clean up after our obsession with deranged senses, the facility of jazz inbibing millions from swift adolescent brown and brawn. I bought into your cross just for cheap thrills that were capable of persuading psychedelia to kill the sun. The way you make me feel, baby. Thick shards of ego unable to close the gap, leaving us both forever wanting something we could never articulate fully. Try to picture butter-flies strapped to electric-chairs, day-dreaming their ascent. Starlight straight from the ineffable. Our erotic luddism contrasted nicely with the steady rhythm of urban-warfare outside. Our pounding became particularly meaningful in that context., although when a dwarf emerged from the intermezzo of your third eye, I began to have my doubts. The clamour and confusion, the outlawed coordinates talking softly to the dry husk of ambiguity, all made for the joy of creation. Entwined surface-to-air tumours drowned out the persistent hum of infomercials on the television that promised to make us all wealthier, thinner and drop-dead sexy. I blithely tuned it all out because everything I could ever dream of was working my stub with reams of a violent talent. Thanks, but no thanks. Her tongue was a meandering improvisation on the complexities of life, sex and curdled geographies of the mind, an ulterior act reception that rattled high-stemmed glasses and rolled in my river all night long. Maya could never bury its swirl in my lap with such aplomb after that, I assured you afterwards.

Later, we decided to record the still-shimmering sonics of our union and felt just like Robinson Crusoe.

(dedicated to my good cyber-friend RavenSeeker)