Nocturnette 16: Acumen In.
Aberdeen city, one main street, like a grossly mutant fishing village sprouting bleeding dead limbs and barely camouflaged zombies. A provocation of endless fear.
I watch people dawdling and bumbling, gabbling and huddling through Easter holiday drudgeries like whelks sliming a stone. The wind picks-up and dislodges the pan-piper from his stance on the St. Nicholas Square, the Celine Dion reverie falters, his spirit dampens and the meticulously callous horde trample him wholeheartedly as they advance upon the bank machines. He's up again, albeit archly lopsided and gloriously off-key, though he appears oblivious, and in this town, a cacophony WORKS.
Before the great Marks and Spencer, fulcrum of Union Street, I witness smokers stood singly gesturing to friends in Starbucks, stage left, or browsing ebay. Losing the line of the horizon and sickening the cockles. One girl frowns nestled in a grisly alcove. She hangs from her cigarette, smoke trailing from her posed hand like a snuffed candle wick. A flesh waxen candy. A skewbald fumerole, quoting Kardashians ,flummoxed in luxurious and gossiping delirium vitae.
Striving to burn with pollution.
The art of dead time between here and the pure imago void. Like a velvet black poppy crammed with crab spiders wedged between petals waiting for the bumblebees to touchdown.