Seething since 2000*
A film-strength city situated, obviously, deep in the marshes. Canals full of treacle and drains that drip. Body-parts moving infinitely towards their obsolescence, pulsing nevertheless with the isotope of hopeless life. Hopeless life, staggering towards reproductive symmetry. Symmetry, between our bodies and the city’s design. Blank signs, stretched across a broken boulevarde. Dream spurts, like a monsoon of desire. Speaking of Lubri, a mechanic drew for me his own version of the plastic passions. It looked a little like a bowl of noodles. I danced around a pole, subverting the warrant for my repression. Something sidled up to me and thrilled me in the dark. My hand lay clenched by the remocon, unable to let go of its caffeine fixation. Somehow, we slept. The days could fill a plastic spoon. An endless city of reboots and configurations drawn in red. Beyond the heat-haze, on the river coated with lurid green fronds, we sat and watched as the ferries punted to and fro. The beer bottle between us looked like a limb in a sauna, sweat dripping down its elegant brown skin. Beneath the pulsing drum of my own belly a modest hunger surged, tripping the wire that causes heartbreak and dream squirms. The love of a desert lizard for shade. The footprints you left like a map across the room after showering in the infinite cubicle. The surprise of dawn, hatched from a moon egg. Surviving on water and touch. Drying up in my sleep only to dream of dams and advancing tidelines. Billowing with my arms into a crackling embrace, all the while thinking of the heat of the road beneath my feet. Bathing your feet in a stone bucket left beside the door, then watching it overflow in the candle-enhanced twilight. Swotting mosquitoes with our fingertips. Reading lines from a book of palm prints. recoiling from the hot blast of midday like an electric hammer. The burning sprockets of the stars. The velvet honey holding them together, or apart. The radiant glue of moonbeams. The smoky oil that clings to your lips. The burning resin between us, behind us, in our heads.