Notes from the Palace of Exile

Belvedere Jehosophat - Sunday, November 28, 2004 - 00:22:14 - print it raw

A fat man stands on the edge of a cliff, the ringmaster of this sick parade. He totters and sways drunkenly, appearing many times as if he’s about to topple over the edge. However, he never falls.

[I can't remember yesterday, today it rained.]

A city of civilians, filthy, bedraggled & absurd are seen. They all have bullet holes in their necks. They are dead crosses in boats with people, sad-faced clowns whose tears are melting the very paint off their faces, lonely refugees from a recently disbanded “geezer and slapper” party; in short, they represent every single person now alive – some dead ones too.

The only soundtrack to the lonely shuffling of the procession is the cackling laughter of a clearly insane woman.

A man, sputtering from a bullet hole in his neck, says, “That’s not much of a life. That’s an existence,” and something else about stolen souls.

A soldier runs from out of nowhere, his gun is in his hand – and with the same ease and familiarity that one would move out of the way of an incoming car, he ducks and dodges falling bombs. He keeps going, running against the tide.

[Everything is in inverted commas. Everything is implied. Everything is contradiction; no amount of huffing and puffing will change that.]

Police dogs, war pigs, war hawks, a variety of animals, all sick and mutated, breathing poison clouds, pissing ammonia, bring up the rear. These aren’t stragglers, though; these are the Prætorian Guard of a New World Order. They mark the end of the procession.

CONGRATULATIONS. Congratulations.

Two pirates, both resigned, sit and watch the procession until the procession is done. “At least the world didn’t end,” remarks one. “Are you sure?” asks the other.

these days are like needles under my skin

On that note...

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» Forever whore, the Princess of Wales: part ad infinitum

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