Do you feel the beat!
The dust drumming the road.
Flaming heat soughing.
Tortured moonshine, stabbed sunlight,
orchestrated by a microcosmic army,
endless lines of mercs,
fucking cannibals and bloodsuckers,
bunch of distrustable crawlers, creepers and aviators.
Hiding in the shadows till dusk… after the sun pulled out the last scorching hot lance, they move.
Better you listen…
hear the bow-taut strings,
the vibriting stings,
turning the dust rouge.
Stars scrubbing the colourness and holidayness down to earth.
An apocalyptic earth,
grey-washed roofs,
rain-lashed walls,
following a functional makeshift architecture.
A fiction of a surviving mind.
A traumatized theory.
I wouldn´t be surprised about a Mad Max dressed outlaw taking the steps opposite to the balcony of my appartment, rushing for toilet, hearing him cursing – and gunfire. Listen… cheesy rats.
Rarely lights.
Black whole-bombed walls.
Burried windows.
The dark saves costs. Work calls soon.
– And there he is. The outlaw. Well, maybe a retired, relict, of my beat. Around 50. Lurching slippers. Pyjama trousers. A cautious formed belly. Light brown teint. An office guy. Good camouflage. Half of his hair still in bear hug with the pillow. A torch in his right, not close to a gun. Moving slowly, but aware, step by step to the top. Taking a shower. Fidgets with his torch – maybe the soap. Brilliant camouflage.
It´s getting hot these days.
Can I feel the beat?
Never knew what this is meant to be. The beat.
A warm breeze blown in the heat by an airfield of propellers.
Veterans rolling between. Selling history, printed, well, copied, written, proofed, behind the frontline.
Beats and no audience.
Listen and you feel the exhaustion, the whining, the tears running down your neck as cold as a shrapnel.
Sometimes I can feel the beat, yes.
But it´s literary, pathetic, romantic.
Not close to a world they call Cambodia.