RuKsaK

I’m at the bottom of the barrel here – no fucking idea what to write at all, so I’ve resorted to tacky drivel. Here it is. New visitors – please read something else first to get a taste of what this place is usually like.
------
Coming out the tunnel, into the city’s starting light again, in the back of the taxi. Never an awareness for the changing face of each day’s driver – fuck that. I took Wagner to almost unbearable volume, deep in my ears, the waves and tones wobbling through my brain muscle. I was hoping for his musical descriptions of heroes, death and wild, godly landscapes to scorch some good fiction into my thoughts. Wagner, bullying the shit out the orchestra, taking them for all they’ve got and directing a spear of music into thousands of years of destiny.
------
‘Look at this metal – how it shines.’

He held it up with awe rattling his eyeballs. Following the blade up and down, watching its flickering colours – enchanted as a fool.

‘What could it be for? Could it be for killing Muslims?’
‘Yes, yes – I think it must be.’

And, that was a long time ago on mud hills.
------
The music boasted some distant notes, showing how beautiful a second can be, if held in the right way, at the right moment – full of brightness. Wagner lifted my head, made it sway a little and told me to close my eyes with loving, trusting conviction.
------
‘My cunt fucking stinks.’
‘Does it? That’s lovely – what does it smell of dear?’

Their voices played to only their audience, both in different tones, but the same parody.

‘It stinks like fuck of your cock.’
‘How’s that my dearest? I don’t remember an act of love for several days now.’
‘It’s sending out a search-stench – to check it’s still there. Calling it for more fuck and man fat.’

He lunged onto her with a pirate’s laugh, all full of saliva and lust. Then they fucked.
------
Wagner’s exhaustingly relevant hums near convinced me immortality exists. Turn this stuff in my ears to colour and shapes and I’ll see my soul, with its jokes at transience, fly in loops behind my taxi I thought – just as a line to write rather than any kind of reality. I opened my eyes, but the glass and concrete of the rising buildings didn't make the view any brighter, nor did Wagner.
------
‘Hey, look! Are they skulls?’
‘Bloody hell! They are! There’s at least ten of them. Marvellous.’
‘What do you mean ‘marvellous’?’
‘That sends my viewed body-count right up, that does.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, I saw that mangled guy near my house, next to a tree and the dead bum with his grim tongue. And, there’s Lenin of course. Anyway, this bunch makes the list higher. More stories to tell. You know like ‘I bought the t-shirt’ – ‘I own the story’. It’s all about raconteuring in the pub. Why the fuck else would anyone die except to give the living stories?’
------
So, Wagner tumbled more mad drums into ears – pretending death was here and I nearly believed the bastard. I had to look at the iPod to see its plastic. The skyscrapers caught my eyes in shadows and the thunderous notes made me look to the top of a few of them. I thought of the magnificence of men just before laughing silently, liplessly at my idiocy. The usual idiocy of someone not born in a city. And, for a few final seconds, Wagner kept them coming, flying, perfect virgins - music to rip open skies and build mountains with.
------
But, the taxi had to stop. I had to get out.

‘Khamsa mnida’ – thank you
------
My usual lack of dexterity showed as I popped plugs from my ears, pocketed change and slung my full bag on my back.
------
If you enjoyed even a word of that then click on the brown and yellow blog whore thing on the right - I'm slipping over there and as usual want to be number one, so more people will read about stinky cunts and classical music.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Scraps fly in and out