Poetics

"Operant."

The vendor won't look at you. He recoils slightly as you step closer.

"Go on, Hersh. You'll give us away."

The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

M.I.H.O.'s report on inter-matter phasing is still there, and still tempting.

"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…

You return to the faded billboard.

"Back again."

"I believe... this is where I'm supposed to offer you a deal."

A flash of a young boy, feet dangling, bracing for a needle in a cold office.

A spray-painted smile. Seems unsure of itself, though.

Glowing, futuristic -- the epitome of Fuck.

Poster selections from a fellow admirer of the pleasing geometries of the female form.

That trolley is for future archaeologists.

The wind whistles a tune as it passes.

Tiny prison bars.

Copper light spilled across Party Alley. With the tip of his cigarette, Vespar indicated another building. You'd lost track of how many.

The glass is remarkably clean, near non-existence.

A wheel once turned to perform kinetic miracles.

Something shiny in the dark below.

You can still see the eroded buckles of the massive stone shoe.

Boats pass underneath your feet, worming their way through the secret capillaries of the city.

Water gurgles somewhere below, punctuated by high-voltage crackles.

Accepted submissions -- original drafts.

A patch of dense greenery below, like an embassy for the forest.

Kilometres of celluloid, enough to envelope Portofiro in one vast film.

Proofs for the next issue, pinned for review.

Something at this party triggered the neolithic urge to build a henge.

Faces here not yet fully carved. Ghosts trapped in stone.

Tadpoles swarm at the water's edge, longing to climb the embankment.

Abstract but still humanoid.

Doors crowd you, stacked upon each other. Behind one of them -- your former asset, ESTOC, draped in a see-through cloak.

Shadowed waters wrinkle below; an isolated cutout of an abyssal sea.

The edges of objects peeking out offer intimations of the wasteland beyond.

Eastward, the city blossoms outward like a fractal, unto the island's edge.

A portrait has been stencilled over the movie poster.

Small white flowers have opened up at the touch of a sunbeam, tight buds unfurling. Pale, fragile things.

Screens covered in black tape. No chance of reflection.

A picture of a great steel chariot, signed by the hands that built it.

The wind in the juniper smells like early spring.

Designed to look sporty, but covered in glitter.

She spends slow afternoons rearranging the postcards under glass.

Large glass eyes, milky with cataracts, stare back.

The fan inside the vent whispers.

Many tears have been spilled here.

You emerge from the tunnel into darkness. It crowds around you for a better look.

Perhaps a statement piece by a yet to be known artist.

The cuddly dolphin gazes at the wall with the blank stare of a war veteran.

You're not going to just wear that boring, brown paper bag, are you? It's an insult to the rich tradition of facial ornaments.

A view to the outside -- swaying, pleasantly edgeless.