Wednesday, 27 October 2010

Kresnari

Only two stops to go and the architecture’s definitely polarising into the gated gulag pallazi and the run down wooded bungalows of the peasantry. The train, now parallel with a street of these pallazzi (some of which containing elaborately faded frescoes of a great misty garden) starts to screech unusually sharply with the coincidence of the semi derelict platform of the name Kresnar. Lots of things are exchanged and I feel a surge leaving the train. Everyone jumps off and we are all running alongside the train, moving along up some carriages and then jumping on again. But a series of badly placed dilapidated signalling posts block the doors until all has left me but the final kitchen carriage, absolutely rammed with chefs all standing around with stained white aprons, tending to the smoking hotplates on all sides.
They shout at me and flap open and close the long thin vent windows above the hot plate, gesturing my entrance through them. I run and stick myself to the outside of the steaming hot casing of this kitchen wagon. At first I subconsciously withdraw my hand from the window’s greasy metal rim, then I remember dilapidation and my reliance on our pickup. At one point they’re all pulling my one arm, almost dislocating it from the inside. As I stick my head inside, I notice that indifferent to my increasingly detached collision with it, a large, inevitable hot plate below singes my hair from there. Eventually I let go, or try to, as the chef refuses to give up my arm.
All this is superfluous (the train and pickup) now I’m in Kresnar. One side of the train track are these pallazzi depicting low firs of ornate gardens, the other is me on the abandoned platform. I walk along the platform’s end and off into an area of pine trees and mossy stones. There are remnants of visitors I imagined youths from the wood and badly tiled bungalows, old firs, tins and printed papers. I enter what I suspect might be the garden of one off large palazzo and maybe the mayor or duke’s.
I am approached by a man, not dissimilar in his north easterly features to those of the chefs du partie. The garden seems to emanate its own mist, surrounding the firs. I assume he is the gardener as he gives me a tour, motioning. I spot an unusual creature feeding on some dark mauve shrubbery, and its resemblance to rat causes a momentary doubt in perspective. ‘KRESNARI’ he gestured and it scurried towards us. 

Sunday, 17 October 2010

on the run writing



congregating out of danger,
then ring on the door bell furiously
of this establishment
i never registered
but as an obstacle between a moments dash

into the shop's backgarden
of private paradise under trampolene,
under disused deep fryer,
behind uninhabitable thorn shrub
with soft side out of view
leading perhaps into an adrenaline hole
through to another similar volume
of useful detritus to bury-
even thought with a flutter of foxhole
or  hedgehogg- cohabiting but probably too small
to cover my heat
from the helicopters.

Kingston, Bank of England (Behind Part One)

yes he was very good. Same man as last time…
not gunna be able to foreply tonight, mind
comes out from behind her carefully, dozenee
bleech and gelled like a suburbs helmet.


I can hear the man say through her mouth from where I was standing;

Let him learn. Let him commission the portrait of our horse, if that’s what the man wants that’s what the man’s getting.

For a split second the place forgot me and my brain went alien cold and bleached of all knowledge - ? - inherited on the escalator going up towards this giant meshy white dome of cells, my eyes scaled down themselves around these layers of inside colours + outside shapes. Objects detached for seconds were unrecognisable as the words rumbling from some tanoy syncing in unreadable white protrusions. Shifting retinal planes retracting+detracting. In other shifting flat textures of my self directed musical fate are adding artificially to the emptying stomach of this whole estranged doming and petrifying drift of my occupied sense of space. Even in this unparalleled paralysis the identified thought approached me up there, to say that I could go back down again, depressed and alone but make a living writing plainly and stupidly about the abstract shapes and senses with fake infancy within the soft safe centre of chosen world architects.
Falling from the dome down the escalator would be a first even for such ahuman structure, and a sinking feeling on top of me that I am too grounded to let me be taken with otherworld hits. Thus having located another conversation over using each others tongues or mother tongues perfectly, dull but satisfyingly for them- another angled wave of dizziness for me. So off they came out my ears down to why the previously white working woman with the regional diamond trainers, high trade mascara, confident gestures and dead closed eyes, softly lectures desperately smiling Indian girl- clutching wholesale scripts. Convince me with your soft smile- make me see your way with your sensitive hands, nice lady. Something about how he didn’t want to be killing those peoples, cemented his mind and brains in my predictions.