saturday night in nyc, 11/05
1:02 am Asian markets provide respite.
1:04 am Jealous of silicon, neon broods behind grated shop windows.
1:24 am When society’s dominant sensual paradigm finally switches from sight to smell and cell phone manufacturers are forced to provide odor messaging, this picture will (retroactively) make a lot more sense. Flowers trapped under bodega awnings are just the best.
3:05 am On the First Avenue subway platform, MTA employees cluster, seemingly unmindful of what appears to be a human body several feet away from them…
3:06 am…or, perhaps, they put the dummy there to fuck with people (though that doesn’t explain the fishing twine) (nor the rectangular legs) who are waiting patiently to go home and crawl into bed.
Tintinnabular wah wah howls of aromatic sound blind his nose as the flat figure paints stroke after stroke onto the concrete.
She speaks to him: “Lend me an ear.” And he does. “You will send me out to do your bidding,” began the nearly-completed dove dripping with white from the pen of a licorice soul, “but you will never truly believe in what I have to offer.”
“Why is that?” he laughed.
“You will navel-gaze and ponder and reflect, but as soon as your eyes lift from the center of the body, the scene will shift to decadence, depravity, and whatever you’re looking for out at the end of the night…the jingle jangle morn…”
“What am I looking for?”
“The end—you want to know that there is a point where madness turns from abrasive cuts of blood-spurting agony to coalesced scabs that fade away, drifting into a timeless void, nihilistic oblivion–a terrible beauty that will either uplift or shatter your frame.”
“New Yawk, eh? Think I’ll stay right here until the trains stop running.”
“They never stop.”
“Oh, they’ll stop. They’ve got to stop runnin’ sometime. Just got to.”