I came into the meaning of that underpass
crouching for shelter, roar above; i came into
countries where minarets flash, their taut Byzantine
spools and the crates of laughing people turned to soap.
The malls are full. Radio tells me all i need
and now as storage fails the lots divided up
are auctioned, and the books set free till dusk from dawn
come trundling in. The middlemen enough get paid
to always return again, our skeleton crew provides
labor for the carrying part. No meaning's blizzard
shall yet accrue while underpass and bedroll part
stealthily at first cold rays when i was not
there, my books in storage now were yet to gather:
through avenues to verge of sight the maggots troop
led by shining cephalopods.
Dead is the New Alive. --"I learnt to walk in the backstages of theatres and opera houses, amongst the beautiful chaos of costume changes, circus performers, sweaty ballerinas, dripping make-up, and far too much glitter. Then, I went mad and was locked up. What did you think that would sound like?" (Emilie Autumn seems like the real-life equivalent of"Fiorinda" in Bold As Love by Gwyneth Jones that i am reading now.)
Airship Pirates. Cool. Steampunk music.
Remembering: "Shibuya-kei is Dead". (1996?)
And i suppose i'll be reading Notes on Conceptualisms...though maybe not this years--!