Criptic Critic Conscience and Known for it

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Day light War

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.

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