Sunday, November 07, 2004
Until the Morning Comes
~
He sat on the edge of their universe. And watched. Colours and moving jaws kept them told apart, their movements and motions being the most predictable part of the evening. Each of these worked their particular path from glance to tucked-away look, the timid flicker of sight cast over the prey on display. The girls were responsible as much as the boys and he knew it well. As a gas pedal on stretch of road where the horizon makes love to the passing dashes, their collective tone escalated and pitched then fell; total ambient noise the high water mark. The sounds needled gently through: from Dutch to French to English to American or Hebrew -- quipping friends, re-telling movies, sucking on the long necks of a future still untold. Taxis shuffled by while tuk-tuks meandered down the wide stretch, its interlocked geometry like a planet's soil; nearby, police and prostitutes waited for a catch, never too unsuccessful. People are everywhere he thought, with a constant presence and unending din, working without seeming and a like a tattooist's electric pen, penetrating without knowing. Feigned interest came diminished from a female point-of-view but the male's overeager presumptuous posture was the hallmark of their generation. A superstar walked by, with an eye colouring's effort paralleled only by the waitresses' unbiased duplicity. After a short while, he streaked the sky and shot past one last time: and his shadow was shorter and less-better dressed. Watching, listening, he knew then that they were a people that protected its transients, asked about its lonely and considered the tip of a pyramid the only place to stand, watching the architecture of their globe spill out before them.
S*
2004.11.07 - 04:07
He sat on the edge of their universe. And watched. Colours and moving jaws kept them told apart, their movements and motions being the most predictable part of the evening. Each of these worked their particular path from glance to tucked-away look, the timid flicker of sight cast over the prey on display. The girls were responsible as much as the boys and he knew it well. As a gas pedal on stretch of road where the horizon makes love to the passing dashes, their collective tone escalated and pitched then fell; total ambient noise the high water mark. The sounds needled gently through: from Dutch to French to English to American or Hebrew -- quipping friends, re-telling movies, sucking on the long necks of a future still untold. Taxis shuffled by while tuk-tuks meandered down the wide stretch, its interlocked geometry like a planet's soil; nearby, police and prostitutes waited for a catch, never too unsuccessful. People are everywhere he thought, with a constant presence and unending din, working without seeming and a like a tattooist's electric pen, penetrating without knowing. Feigned interest came diminished from a female point-of-view but the male's overeager presumptuous posture was the hallmark of their generation. A superstar walked by, with an eye colouring's effort paralleled only by the waitresses' unbiased duplicity. After a short while, he streaked the sky and shot past one last time: and his shadow was shorter and less-better dressed. Watching, listening, he knew then that they were a people that protected its transients, asked about its lonely and considered the tip of a pyramid the only place to stand, watching the architecture of their globe spill out before them.
S*
2004.11.07 - 04:07
