landscapes
Posted: 08 Dec 2016, 14:48
inthe B A C K _ A L L E Y
It's the way the light shatters incontrovertible. From above, the broken street lamp scatters shadows at your feet like muted, deep, dark water. Step back and you will fall in.
It's the music turned up until the notes stab through your ear drums to crawl into your brain. This living lightning strikes in your gut and boils in there until hot steam pours out of you. This love isn't a soft memory. This love is a needle and a screaming fox. It bubbles inside of you as the world weighs itself down on your chest. You're standing there but an elephant is crushing your ribs. Until you let it go. The words come out like violence, bullets and bombs that screech incoherent speed. One minute buried under rough skin and the next prying ivory from dead sockets.
What's the price of freedom?
You don't know. You just know you're keeping up with the beat, letting loose your weapons of war.
It's the walls themselves, brick blocks building upwards. They stop just shy of the sky which is a black and gray haze. You have heard stories of stars, but have you ever seen them? Colors created a canvas of those walls and turned them into a place for words and tags, and images of people who came and went in a single breath. In a city like Harper Rock, this may be all that's left of them, the only reminder of a life ill spent. You can see it all through the mist of cigarette and marijuana smoke. You see the neon yellow, white, green, pink and blue faded and soaked into the pores of a crack den and a bar. There is a sea of little orange and red lights that goes on as far as they eye can see.
You know the alley ends. You know there are streets on either side. You know cars will rip by with the sound of thunder under their hoods and the flash of lights. You can't see it now though. The world is tiny. Two men facing each other on either side of an iPod plugged into a speaker. One man controls the lightning sound.
It's the cold concrete underfoot when the last word has left you and you are a husk, waiting to hear what he has to say. He has been silent until now. His face unreadable. Even as you put him to shame. Even as you questioned every inch of his walk. Now he erupts volcanic and spews his lava onto you. Not spews. Rains. It's a torrent and he shows no signs of retreat. If this is war then he's attacked you on all sides with blitzkrieg. He is throwing everything. He is a deep chasm of hate. Not for you. For his life. For the loss of his brothers on the streets. For a mother who can't pay her bills unless she gets help from the government. For dirty cops and a juvie system he's seen too much of. But you're the easy target as he empties his own heat on you.
The music stops.
There's silence as you listen. He's open now. He bared his throat in opening his mouth.
It's the chill in the night air, nipping at your skin through an oversize hoodie and drop crotch harem pants.
It's the way the city looks at night, only ever truly dark in its recesses. In its corners.
The music begins again. Your hand flies out. Your finger points. You want him to know every bullet is meant for him. His warfare is fast and hard but yours is just plain cruel. Slash and burn. Retreat and destroy. He called you out on every imperfection, but you will raze every fault like a sacked city and leave him starving on the field of battle.
Ka-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump.
The crowd has a heartbeat. It gets faster with every casing that hits the ground. The words are blowing out of you, a spray of fire that melts away the nightmares you walked out of.
It's the rage on his face and the bobbing of heads in the crowd. It's him against you. It's his fist balled up so tight he bleeds from crescents.
You look into his eyes as you pull the trigger one last time. The explosion of sound isn't from you though. Being loud is his job. Screaming is his job. Yours is to be better.
It's the fist he tries to come at you with. How it moves through the air towards your mouth, the one that just pulled his skin off in front of everyone. It's the first contact. The blossoming purple of a wound. The white gleam of your smile.
It's the way money slips into your hand.
It's the way you turn and leave behind a barren wasteland of ash and dust.
It's the music turned up until the notes stab through your ear drums to crawl into your brain. This living lightning strikes in your gut and boils in there until hot steam pours out of you. This love isn't a soft memory. This love is a needle and a screaming fox. It bubbles inside of you as the world weighs itself down on your chest. You're standing there but an elephant is crushing your ribs. Until you let it go. The words come out like violence, bullets and bombs that screech incoherent speed. One minute buried under rough skin and the next prying ivory from dead sockets.
What's the price of freedom?
You don't know. You just know you're keeping up with the beat, letting loose your weapons of war.
It's the walls themselves, brick blocks building upwards. They stop just shy of the sky which is a black and gray haze. You have heard stories of stars, but have you ever seen them? Colors created a canvas of those walls and turned them into a place for words and tags, and images of people who came and went in a single breath. In a city like Harper Rock, this may be all that's left of them, the only reminder of a life ill spent. You can see it all through the mist of cigarette and marijuana smoke. You see the neon yellow, white, green, pink and blue faded and soaked into the pores of a crack den and a bar. There is a sea of little orange and red lights that goes on as far as they eye can see.
You know the alley ends. You know there are streets on either side. You know cars will rip by with the sound of thunder under their hoods and the flash of lights. You can't see it now though. The world is tiny. Two men facing each other on either side of an iPod plugged into a speaker. One man controls the lightning sound.
It's the cold concrete underfoot when the last word has left you and you are a husk, waiting to hear what he has to say. He has been silent until now. His face unreadable. Even as you put him to shame. Even as you questioned every inch of his walk. Now he erupts volcanic and spews his lava onto you. Not spews. Rains. It's a torrent and he shows no signs of retreat. If this is war then he's attacked you on all sides with blitzkrieg. He is throwing everything. He is a deep chasm of hate. Not for you. For his life. For the loss of his brothers on the streets. For a mother who can't pay her bills unless she gets help from the government. For dirty cops and a juvie system he's seen too much of. But you're the easy target as he empties his own heat on you.
The music stops.
There's silence as you listen. He's open now. He bared his throat in opening his mouth.
It's the chill in the night air, nipping at your skin through an oversize hoodie and drop crotch harem pants.
It's the way the city looks at night, only ever truly dark in its recesses. In its corners.
The music begins again. Your hand flies out. Your finger points. You want him to know every bullet is meant for him. His warfare is fast and hard but yours is just plain cruel. Slash and burn. Retreat and destroy. He called you out on every imperfection, but you will raze every fault like a sacked city and leave him starving on the field of battle.
Ka-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump.
The crowd has a heartbeat. It gets faster with every casing that hits the ground. The words are blowing out of you, a spray of fire that melts away the nightmares you walked out of.
It's the rage on his face and the bobbing of heads in the crowd. It's him against you. It's his fist balled up so tight he bleeds from crescents.
You look into his eyes as you pull the trigger one last time. The explosion of sound isn't from you though. Being loud is his job. Screaming is his job. Yours is to be better.
It's the fist he tries to come at you with. How it moves through the air towards your mouth, the one that just pulled his skin off in front of everyone. It's the first contact. The blossoming purple of a wound. The white gleam of your smile.
It's the way money slips into your hand.
It's the way you turn and leave behind a barren wasteland of ash and dust.