aoioetry

[aoioetry]

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Weeks have passed.

The temporary fence has gone. Patches of new lawn now blend with old grass, and the updated bike path is already well-worn.

But the refurbishment is only a success now the old residents have returned. I counted roughly thirty as I walked past,

all mingling excitedly in the revitalised surrounds, pale yellow crests atop talking heads, congregating in their old watery triangle corner

shaded by apartment blocks.

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Full glass.

Steep glass slendering towards steel falls,

pushing forward, always steered by a steady hand:

time tapping at the root.

Waiting as water rises.

Small schemes build tiny nations, surfacing surely to join warming air.

Too much progress will spill, like oil, over brittle dam walls.

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Moonlight percolates through thin clouds in the still of the night. In a dark backstreet, finally empty of horses and motor cars, a thief steps delicately through a pane-less storefront window.

The jewellery store behind him had been ripe for expropriation. Standing in shallow luminescence on the street corner, he begins to replace the glass as professionally as he had removed it an hour earlier.

Tonight's undertaking had been simple and swift. Precise removal of fragile objects was his goal, and his means always mirrored his ends. But the getaway route now facing him will not be as easy to control or predict. His companions had warned that the job might be too dangerous for him in his condition. But he'd insisted.

⟡

The city is quiet, but one never knows who might be lurking. The moon is tiny and far away but still commands enough influence to shine down, revealing as it reflects. He pulls his cap forward and unrolls his dirty shirt sleeve, hiding floral patterns painted in blue ink. Hoisting the bag of liberated treasure on his shoulder, he walks gingerly down the alley. He never runs anywhere unless it is absolutely necessary.

Rounding the corner a few streets away, he is ambushed by light. It feels piercing, though diffused through thick smog, and he freezes. He'd planned his route so carefully before leaving his flat that evening, but didn't know that this street had been electrified. Now new, glowering lamps line his way, sitting on stiff poles like prison bars of freshly painted iron. Across the road, a figure in a hat and cloak strolls along in the cheerful gloom.

⟡

Our thief draws a quiet breath and tiptoes around the perimeter of the light cast by the nearest lamp. Modern technology can be helpful, but there are always limitations to be exploited by canny operators. He keeps a sharp eye on the cloaked man as he navigates through the shadow.

The man is unaware. He is thinking about whatever it is he had been doing in the city so late at night. If he turns to his right, he might see a slim band of gold shyly glinting from under the thief's trouser cuff. It is not there for vanity but unfortunately it often does attract attention.

The next lamp is not as soft as the first. It is deadly serious about its role as an arbiter of law, order and progress. Catching view of the gold above the thief's foot, it bounces a gleam of light off it as the thief tries to surreptitiously pick up pace and curve past. The gleam hits the cloaked man in the corner of his eye, and the thief is perceived. Once again he freezes, weighing up whether or not to bolt. His observer brings a pair of expensive spectacles to his eyes, spies the thief's bag and tattoos, confirms a hunch, then hollers a cliche.

"Stop, thief!"

⟡

The thief runs. For the first time in years and despite all the old warnings flashing through his head.

He makes it halfway down the street before he is ambushed again. A large crack ripples through the footpath's grouting like a rich stratum of sediment ready to be mined. A conspicuous seam rather like the golden lacquer patchworking the thief's right foot to his ankle. But he is going too fast to notice it. The rich man in the cloak sees the crack and cries out in wordless, stunned recognition as he realises the danger the thief is in.

As the thief trips more golden repair-lines from previous, lesser accidents are exposed. His porcelain body shatters immediately as it hits the smoothly paved granite setts. The sound is not unlike that of the gems and finely wrought precious metal accessories spilling out of his bag and into the road.

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And so i suppose this is suburban living:

the strange quiet at night. The odd moving, winking lights

here and there.

They circle my house, and set off my pacemaker.

The dog doesn't bark.

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Unfinished Business

They all live close together like neighbours in a block of flats. The vloggers, the essayists, the influencers…

We spy on them through one-way glass windows and they know someone is watching.

Can anyone else see a day-trader ghost trapped in the walls? A drop-shipping spectre ensnared by liminality, in the dead space between each apartment?

He is screaming at me about passive income.

CLICK THE LINK BELOW TO SET HIM FREE.

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weathers stretch out among fields / flows / patchwork patterns surrounding us. we are ensconced in our naive crevices, stuck behind the sofa of worlds.

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She talks using words forgotten;

but his style of speak's too modern.

She likes a man in cuneiform.

"Why'd you have to go & rune a good thing?"

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1st Movement

my ever growing legs are Kicking in time with thesparkling light show Outside, & my body smalls

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Summer storm

shadow clouds freckle & ripen in yellow sky; like spots appearing fast on an old banana melting into the Tarago dashboard. the day steams and vision shimmers as the rumble of the road blends with distant thunder.

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silentlybalanced between quivering limerence and subliminal innocence

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the light in his head

glowed bright when he

stepped off the ledge.

[his heart pumped fast &

the light in his head

burned white as he

stepped off the ledge.]

a slow wind pushed against his body,

plunging him, upwards,

into silent water.

in glimpses she saw

refractions of the non-dimming light.

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as (we) dance, (we) forget (our) face(s)

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As the train slowly bent round the infinite mountain I angrily bit into my baguette. “What is this sublime beauty,” she breathed, echoing the green thoughts of my faded psyche

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The moon

is a glass cube that

Each blooming daycrushes

with giant golden hammers.

Then secretly

glues together.

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Speaker's Corner

the white man's purple face appeared green

as it glowed on the dying tv. he was just

another preacher who didn't believe in God

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the creepy dogSNARLED, neck

-fur stiffening near a sweaty patch on

the collar of his expensive suit:

This Is Not What I Ordered. I tried

to call the manager but he had

dissappeared