In Count down, Whanganui, some artist has put yellow lights in, rains down on the store like somethings wrong. As I enter to that familiar tune and the swivel of the head particular to my prostration, like everyone in the store knows each other and for a moment it's like "Hey, I know you well". Happily down an aisle I ask Laura not to dance, Why, she asks, Be cause it will kill me, I say.. The pressure is intense and then I'm spat out the end, check out.
A sunset is a recall, a declaration
I wonder if I'll ever see you again
The girls hair thick like a broom looks padded with glue her pasty white flesh a dimple as her shy german accent flattens her fragrant kiwi bolstering and I have to run away - when I recognize in this sound the trapped human inside the crabs shell, serving me.
The sunset, a hole in which to
see through to the center pole
Outside I witness the broken command grind through a previous civilization kudos for age - the elder watches me with uncomfort, the way trapped prey looking down at you with a shot gun against your temple looks. Facing a customer that doesn't question her customs delivers endless joy - the kind an artist, artisan, technicrat, fascist dictator has for order. Everything agreeing - I photograph her and I see the daylight war, before me.