Starving

nomorespacedogs:

for Anton Griffiths

Here the horizon blends with grid-form streets and gridlock. The city sleeps but dreams wildly in a bar on Karangahape Road. Nobody explores - the only hiking done here is that of skirts, upwards, on tables.

Here, elsewhere in the dark, belts fall to the ground and people shake when they breathe. Gone are conservative nights under the covers; gone is sobriety, gone is consent, gone is monogamy, gone is God.

Here the lights stare unblinking, seducing. With the night comes that sick longing for the burn of heat against your tongue; all street-lamps become sticks of rock candy. When you squint you can see them turn into bars like expensive Venetian blinds.

Here you are a linguist. Police cars bark wholeheartedly and strain at the leash. Fire engines bleat in herds and shake the earth. Ambulances meow and caterwaul with their hackles up.

Here the unmarried middle-classmen court little glasses. Hens cluck around sex shops. Stags try to forget the taste of absinthe. Babies scream in their cots while televisions whirr out lies. Couples drink tea in silence while watching another medical drama. Two men sit on a stage with a guitar, a bottle of wine and all the swear words in the world. A girl sees a little pink cross on a white bar in her hand and clutches the edge of the bathtub with one hand and her stomach with the other.

Here the homeless piss in Airedale Street next to the Methodist mission, get pissed in the same place and shiver in their sleep.

Here is my city. Here is my home.

Source: hyenas

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