CITY

o their city makes no sense
o they built it around oil spills
o and ponds of blood
o I think it’s camelopards’ blood
o there are streams of toxic waste. “We have
o adapted ourselves to that” they sing
o all day long on televizio
o when they marry dead birds fall from the sky. Their sun is
o blue, sometimes green
o “It’s a normal phenomenomenomenom” say their experts
o everybody laugh. They shop around with a knife in one hand
o to cut open car elves when they find one
o they say: “Sometimes, you can find a jewel inside”
o I have seen them do it
o it’s not a pretty sight

o when they are angry, they burn something
o a rug, a toilet, a collection of rare books, remote controls, used
o underwear
o I tried to take pictures, but a man
o told me to stop. “We are loooking foooor terrooooorists” he said, “soooooo
o dooooooo noooooooot take pictures, that wooooooooould risk scare them
o away, thus making it harder toooooooooo catch them.”

o “What’s happening?” asked me somebody else. I was
o writing. “I don’t know” I said, I said, I said, I said, I said “that
o city of yours is confusing. -So keep writing about
o it” said the man. He left, waving a dirty cutlass, calling for Xim

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[Picture: Impressions by reading_is_dangerous]