fingers play alike

The city is a mess. The trees come down on each other like two hands held in prayer. Women are in the streets pushing their chests out like relics. The men are men the way their mothers wanted their men to be – soft – and nothing at all li ke how they really wanted them to be.
The streets are teeming with disinterest, a white painted bicycle is the only thing holding the spirit world ajar on this dirty corner. Platitudes exist, and I do not partake in them.
The rain is meek like a magazine. A child, a girl, a woman. The bitch is howling. It’s morning here, here where it’s really afternoon, where sorry, it’s really early evening, twilight, it’s six a.m., it’s midday come on we’re going – what the hell are you doing? A sense of urgency is lost when the paper is moving across a metal frame.
Can you feel it a little?
There is dust where my fingers begin, so i have to pretend a little that sounds mean existence. Sometimes my theories are flawed, like how i thought you might not have noticed.
I have these big ideas that get stuck there right behind the light switch. You’ll have to excuse the buzzing. Children come and go, and now every other decade is yours and no one’s again.
They came before it was too hard to say you believed in the echoes in the street at night. And not one smile. You were amazed. You danced that dance of nonchalance and cradled your drink in your hand, and in this wintery summer you fell apart when you got in the taxi, let your heart fall right under the seat, to that dark place no one wants their fingers in.
Pre-recorded guitars play on like demented funeral marches or elevator music. Two little boxes alike.
The little red ‘do not walk’ man likes you as much as he likes me.
He told me, honest.
So there are our promises right there on the itemised bill. And the dreams too, what the hey. No split bills.
You spilt all your words on the floor, so someone else could cash in on them when you weren’t looking.
The distress is in the filler.
Look closely. Look away, at the very least. Makes no difference.
The derelicts they ask you for some change, but another city taught you how to pretend they weren’t even there. You take it upon yourself to believe they are the only ones that exist now. There’s god and Medusa in their ranks in that alley named after a dead celebrity. In with the piss and the rats banking on the youcancountonme sensitivity of death. Another couldabeenyourmotherfatherasisterbrother rapist.
Children barely thirty free expensive distractions from their oppressive plastic packages and smile because they are different.
The city shivers with the notion that she’s a whore (how hilariously sexist of me).
Two empty hands and a carriage to catch. I can pick them, sure, but do they ever really change?
An exercise is to close your eyes and begin again, Hello, how ARE you?

fingers play alike


Joined March 2009

  • Artist

Artist's Description

stream of consciousness typed on a typewriter for a lovely friend’s birthday.
i love the imprints on the paper, and the added care to catch typos before they exist.

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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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