(no subject)
With cities, it is with dreams anything can happen. And with sweet new cigarettes and shiny boots, the traveller suck suck sucked in that heavy smoke and
exhaaaaaaaaaled....
A part of him became new. He saw cities within cities. Towns where trouble sparked up and quickly died a hundred years before. All those African villages he would never know. Small brown children with distended bellies and dreams where dreams have never lived. He swung his shiny boots and settled scores he could never start. In France, 1932 on a sandy fishing dock, with gramma in her summer frock and so many screeching birds like loose balloons that always kept him up at night. He pulled some locks from his golden face and hummed to the tune of a thousand rocking lullabies for children that would never come to birth. Faces that would never be seen, never pinched. Never blushing on a summers in Switzerland, with strawberries and wine and old red faces that said
oh ho ho and ooh and ahh and let's try and live forever.
The traveller hears one hundred voices on one hundred different foreign tongues. And if it became one hundred and one, maybe he could twist and bend those lovely syllables and make something new. Create art with words, make them fire and blood and babies weeping softly up in tree branches. The travellers tongue, where words are play things like for tots to hang on, monkey bars in broken down play grounds. Let him sing those sounds into you, and turn meaning upside down. Set those sounds ablaze as words tumble this way and that, crying and laughing and creating new feelings, new ideas and giving you new eyes. Picture that, like peering at a war and seeing a party. Like making a mess and seeing a masterpiece.
With every new city, it is a new world and a new heart, that pumps furiously into the past and the present and whatever is still to come...