Toxic Sky Flash

Some more drug prose 4 the books :-)

Toxic sky flash (Composed June 2010)

Love at the speed of light, i fashion a meth lolly from a light-bulb and obsessively siphon a miniscule portion of the crystalline flakes into the glass, super heated by my cheap lighter into a sizzling liquid, the thick chemical smoke inhaled though two sets of lungs.

Love is a funny thing, I often think about whether a male dog has any feeling for his offspring. Or whether love isn’t just a biological imperative? Why do these drugs make me feel alive while they kill me?

The Ocean looks different tonight. No longer an abysmal swamp of stolen dreams, but rather a teaming energy field of limitless potential. I want to dive into it and frolick along its joyful edges. But the drugs are sure to run out soon enough and gloomy clouds of a thousand wasted Mondays can be seen not to far off the halcyon horizon.

What delights we share but all alone are we in our misery, despite its need for company. A season passes and there again I sit on the same beach, this time alone dreading the approaching night. My cupboard awaits, where I will spend the winter, cowering over a candle, trying to relive the joys of some an illusory past.

URBAN PORTRAIT #1: Muizenberg Station, Planet Earth, 2010

For some or other reason I find myself standing around the train station one late summer evening. its dark already, and an enchanting piece of urbanity reveals its profile to my appreciating eye. For a man raised on multilayered metropolitan landscapes this is but an unforeseen delight. I’m standing on the platform, above me firmly sits an Edwardian era clock-tower, weathered by the relentless ocean winds but maintaining its self-important stature over the coastal station. Its clock face lit up to reveal an incorrect time, it serves as a cosmic reminder of our emphasis on time despite its banality in the greater scheme of things. Beyond the station the receding tracks disappear round a bend that is intercepted with a level crossing. Along the tracks illuminated bushes set the stage for a thousand bergie folk tales narrated in the drunken haze of petrochemical bonfires. Overhead i see the block to which I indentify as my living quarters. Three floors up, 1920s Style and painted an unintentionally melancholic tone of sky blue. A window is lit up in the encroaching nightfall. For a second the existence of some wretched soul is noted, but as my perspective adjusts to incorporate the larger landscape, they become a small part of the collective sorrow of our species. Then towering over everything stands the behemoth of Muizenberg, the Cinnabar, a 16 floor modernist monstrosity punctuating the otherwise old-world setting. Just then a brooding rattle precipitates the arrival of an incoming express train. The sleek beast rolls into the station, overhead sparks sizzle off its electric firewires, giving the machine a distinct aura of mechanical malevolence. As the metronomic siren calls its departure and the automatic doors shut as the haggard commuters scurry along the platform, I gaze once more at the Cinnibar and I fondly acknowledge the smorgasbord of varied urbanity that infiltrates even almost forgotten corners of this pre-apocalyptic civilization. I think back to an old Asimov sci-fi book that I had read a coupla years back; The Foundation Trilogy. The strory is set on a planet called Trantor, characterised by its vast urbanity, the entire planet being covered in compacted interanal city structures, not one piece of natural terrain to spare. Children are raised without ever seeing the sun or stars. I picture earth going that way, then the squawk of seagull directs my attention to the ocean behind me and the rising moon over the distant mountains and I realise that isn’t going to happen any time soon.

On Music(June 2008)

Some shit I wrote while fucked up on Crystal Meth, a month or so before I went to rehab.

The nebulosity of winds, inter-dimensional kinetic waves, rhythm, melody, harmony and the exasperated tones that full my dream-journeyed wings , lead me ever further on my monolithic quest, yes like the lull domineer of old stone, the self prophecies of ones own death can bring out the warrior in us all.

The amphetaminesque freeform jazz solos of all tomorrow’s raves propels me, like a loosened fungal spore drifting through outer space. An interminable alien ciphering ancient rhythms while encapsulated in the bone-cage of a matriarchic whale laid to rest well below the photic zone of last mitternacht's dream. I find it unsettling to imagine the scenario of her death. Her youth and a promised kingdom stolen by untimly death; nothing but a ransacking lot of scoundrel sharks with nothing better to amuse themselves with. Keeper of secrets, she is, knowledge that can only be deemed abstruse to humanity. There she lies as pure as death while the Charcharian beasts bare open her untainted breast. The oozing crimson blood of the tender queen is now shrouding the violence in an osmosising vector of of the dying queens cherished and dazzling phosphorescent biogenic fluids and then her departing soul gives but one last echo into the endless oceans of her unrealized empire. With the beasts included, it promises to be quite a theatrical spectacle.

I digress. I need not much more than the droning synchronicity of my organotronic orchestra to allow the entirety of my entity flux across the fluorescent bloodstream of humanities absurdist landscapes of a Utopia that never existed. And I get of at the next bus stop.

Night falls, all city train ride, reading camus.

Rolling past with speed, out-there lie the cozy ‘burbs.

Little widows lit up in defiance of imminent alienation

Dinners being cooked, homework being done, lives being lived,

Inside the human soup tin, dreams, hopes, and fears become pensive stares.

No one says anything, like sentenced prisoners, we accept our fate

traveling nowhere with no intent.

Cape Town Station; “The Heart of Darkness”.

Commuters commute, taxi’s hoot.

Girl is cornered in the fire escape exit.

In the concealment of the dusk, only the neon lights illuminate this primeval mating dance.

The street scum homes in on its prey…

Not today.

So it seems

she rejects, he moves on.

onwards grinds the human machine.