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"I was inspired to write identity papers |
out of the machine
all through the ante-meridian darkness the male prostitutes hang by our window frame painted semi-gloss black like the iron bars under the glare — they’re loud and nervous as violent clowns waiting for cars just a yard farther than our shade across the brittle grimy glass, and we try to fall asleep but hear where they are trying not to as one by one, when cars come, they are made less and less, and finally there are none when it is closer to dawn — all their young lives may end this way — I don’t know which is worse, hearing them wait for work or knowing they’re there... the white noise of classical music covers us like the white noise of fans defending a tenuous atmosphere, the illusion that they’re not one with our world... But there’s no First, Second or Third World sex-worker, beggar or lean and hungry lawyer of the city’s Great Machine glued together by policing drones, “security” bars, and millions of laboring clones. I am one, love, with America’s dreaming New World, withering its plaster in shivers of shock running like loud sand down to puddles of powder like make-up gone gray or bone dissolved softly back to dust. The stress fracture like a giant jagged grin waves its crumbling paint teeth across our wall peeling away from the brick like sick laughter —
from identity papers
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© 2002 Drimala Records |
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