The Ghosts Behind the Universe #1

STREET NOISE

Certain finishes were forgotten, in times where clogged streets shrieked among the mornings, where time was thick and oozed over our wind-screens. An Age of Misunderstanding.

There’s a hum itching my concentration, skitting fragments of moments where the grating mashes my orientation, and I cling to that numbness I’m cultivating to keep me from being sick.

“I crave connection” came her speech.

Disembody a voice and the remainder is a cloud of ideas, sucked in by the observer and reprocessed so you’re listening to yourself, all of your own prejudices, like monkeys throwing crap at each other – but the monkeys are really you, and so is the shit.

“You don’t exist” I hissed, and a raven mutes the gap between its wings and the eve of the bay windows, compressing silence, but we don’t hear because a tap is stuttering and the repeating noise brushing the net curtains from ground level has tuned my brain out so the voice is startling when it comes again – thrown from a darker space.

“The Age of Misunderstanding builds on worthless armatures, so the space between the beams where we live is slick with a thinness, and in one moment we are both so blandly presented with a nothing that is the cage of our time, but too in a wash of so little that we are only a gulf of a few specks from The Golden Engines. Which is why I strain, strain to keep focussed, distracted by the snapping curves of those noisy men on the screen and then plunged into the divine in the next moment, because when you press the mesh, fingers go right through and touch the hard tiles cracked behind the soaking curtains.”

Look at the brain for god’s sake, exquisite filler? – Unlikely – We are a spiritual form of matter, perhaps so animated and possessed of faculty because god is asking us those awkward questions and expects an answer. Look at the fear and all that time that has got them pinned, dead bird-like, rapid lice peck, moaning lost down the asylum passages. Were you wild I’d wager a glimpse in the nervous water’s icy mirror of the greens and reds you grew and plumed about you, would send you soaring on those magic wings, gleeful. But instead you die at the bus-stops for the hollow-bodied machine, winking dumb yellow eye to suck you in. Ice and gold in equal amounts. And so much sin where sin is an automation of the self, mine and your own.

She tells me “I wish I was beautiful” and I tell her she is and she screams at me and throws wet pages of glue & paper snarling. And she snaps and sets her ghosts loose to hunt me screaming “but you aren’t real!”

And later the Russian woman who serves my Americano has galvanised eyes and doesn’t seethe in this room full of reflections, because I seek to ponder she is used to much worse, born in concrete Blocs, filled with baying children and brutal angular glyphs, but I only know this from the nothing-world I build and so the stones I cast evaporate in their sludge flight and miss the point before they disappear.

But above and below, gold sandwiches these glutton seconds, the glutton seconds where infinite change can bring infinite distraction and you’ll lose yourself in the stasis winds, caught computer-crash still and itching a useless internal insect-momentum that is useless, because the only cold hard remedy is to switch the fucking thing off and start again.

That’s why I have to keep thinking, I have to, force my spirit in here into this body and make it work, drive it screaming “Mush mush!!” Otherwise we are just the tapering death of the dodgems when the power dies, coasting, filling the dead circus air with howling and any excuse to gather in the mirror-halls and shout at ourselves and shit and piss, the machines will rock us back to sleep.

But somewhere amongst the clowns and the costumes in the concrete coffee shops, the golden engines turn a ship-space slow thrum, and the angels rock ghosts to sleep, and time is nectar blown from the blades in these trembled winds.