...joined together in one long... blurb(?) or soup, for your viewing enjoyment, ridicule, eye rolls or perpendicular suspicions.
the train rode through the red damask hallway. a deformed arabian horse. ancient sunflowers wilted in a turquoise-oxidised copper vase depicting an embossed scene of great carnage, blood-lust and terror from a long gone era, gone but not forgotten. at the end of the hallway there stands a child. pearl-like skin. the soft translucence of youth and porcelain melted down to the floor in pools of her innocence and her cherubic body bathed in its milky invitation. the deformed arabian horse raced. the train is dressed in furs and velvets. the deformed arabian horse's eyes tell the story of a million years of desires, carnal passions and mad unsatiated debaucheries; this drinker of blood and potions rides through the hallway alongside the train as if through his own sunken valley of dreams. curtains whip behind him in smoky plumes of silk curve whispers. the floor quakes and moans and creaks and booms...the train rides through various degrees of smoke and passes over the bridge, over the clyde, the dirt of it, death is down there amongst the tenements and depths of the river. a river hidden by smog now hides behind glass towers of commerce, either way, someone dies and the train slowly picks up its speed like a puffing 60-a-day invalid. wheeze. puff. strain. push. i blink. now we're under the bridge and smoke stacks greet us. these old cloud makers pushing the depths of the earth through a brick-lined, upright sarcophagus with an opening where the head should be, spewing out debris in vagary puffs. corrugated iron roofs like my dad's old garage. the rain on it singing. reminds me of rain in a tent or the smell of grass and how the smell of soggy wood fresh from being burnt and extinguished will always remind me of my pappa's death. smoking in his bed, his soon to be duck down stuffed crematorium. and all those jews, from the earth, sent to the sky through smoke stacks at the end of desolate train lines which reminds me of the time roundabout the time when i was almost about to pass my driving test... dreaming of drives to the country, the coast, the hills, other cities, towns, museums... driving on the motorway until it reached an end. and actual end. dead end where you have to smash into the "dead end" sign and die or do a U-turn and keep on going in the other direction. did they charge the jews for train tickets. one way ticket. runaway train never coming back. they stole the gold from their mouths and put it in a pile. shoes and unclaimed baggage. nothing to declare. jehovah just stood there. silent witness. all gods perform that unsavory act. standing back. there's a burnt out car in the long grass next to a piece of boggy ground. it's been there for years. looks like a small car. hatchback. the kind of car americans probably think is cute. toy car. ford fiesta or renault clio. the car is rusting. the edges are getting jagged. slowly pieces are falling off, turning to nothing more than dust. populating the earth. taken from the earth, the car is manufactured. too badly damaged, set on fire, it's left to rot and return to the same earth. the bodies rise up as smoke and ash. in nyc some of the smoke was people dust. somewhere, on some windowsill on some new york city building lies the earthly remains, or part of them, of some banker, broker or raving muslim madman with a beard, a boxcutter and a poorly understood by him copy of the holy book koran, each breeze that hits that ledge sends another piece closer to the earth... into the river perhaps. out to sea. across the oceans. we're just little grains of sand after all. little pictures on the scales of the great snake, time....
various ideas i played with on the train
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