Monthly Archives: May 2013

The Bubbles

The bubbles fly higher than the pollution of the city — above the stink, above the toxic, suffocating smoke which chokes the hope of life in children who will never see adulthood.

Their origins are always ironic, in places especially designed to cull the hope, the dreams and hence the rebellion they encapsulate.

I see them.
I see them floating above the monument in which names of the men who were thrown and ofcourse, killed in the fields where they stage the theatre of madness. They call it war.
The sacrificed goats are named as ‘martyrs’.

And yet the bubbles are born around the green fields of this temple of horseshit.
They dodge the flame which burns with the purpose of slaughtering these mutineers.
They float above it, mocking it with their survival. 
Dreams can never be killed with the warning of a gun and the command of patriotism.

A general tries to scare some children with his blabbering. “March,” he screams and they play tag. “Obey,” he shouts and they show him the finger. When he threatens them with court martial, they fling some mud on his face.
The children are the ones who create the bubbles.

The bubbles try to surpass the sky. Many burst on the way. Some become stars.
All stars are bubbles who have reached.

I see the stars from the valley which was once heaven. What happened?
They burst the bubbles.

But they will be born again.
Expect them.

The people had eaten into the tales of the soldiers and the spies and the terrorists. They had believed them when they had said that the individual is born to be the whore of something larger — to religion, to the nation, to the cause.

The kids walking in the streets know that its a fuckers-tale, meant to procure large-scale prostitutes from the streets of the city which was once a dream itself.
They will rebel.
They are the bubbles.

They’ll rise again. They have to, for that is the law — the individual is larger than the swarm.

I imagine them floating to the place from which their city derives its nickname.

My city derives its nicknames from its dick.
In its streets, the morality-whores search the streets for girls who are free. They try to chain them with brooms and bangles and kids and marriage.
“If you love your culture, stay at home.”

But when they go back home, their bubbles take down their propaganda and their looting machines with a mask of anonymous rebellion.
They come back to the streets, strutting, their fiery eyes unafraid and their hands clutching knives to hack the penis from which my city derives its nickname.

Their rebellion floods the city with bubbles of fire.

A tower is under construction. It is the bubble machine that is the future of the world.
Children work hard on it. They give it endless hours of labour, sweat and their sweet smelling dreams.
It is meant to purify the air of the city, to filter out the toxic blood which pollutes its river.

It is the future of the city.

The city is the future of the world.

It is coming.

The bubbles will flood the streets.

Expect them.

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The Urinal Palace


They trace their lineage from the vermin of the throne.
This age has shown them their place.

Their palace now lies in the stinking urinals hung up in the corner of the street for people to pay their rightful obeisance to these sluts of power.

They enjoy these golden showers, often opening up their ass to satisfy their lust for silver cum from men who had licked their feet the era before.
Greedy whores.

Their eyes see only the glitter, they gobble up shit thinking that its gold which their ministers adorned their asses with.
They call out to beggars for the ‘gold’ which they live on. They like it stinky, and liquid — filled with diarrhea.

They truly are the children of shit.

Earlier they had ripped the innocence off the children with their swords and guns and wars and rapes. Their habit still persists.
Whenever they hear their giggles on the streets, their dicks, lathered in the bloody filth of the past, hardens. They call out to them, tempting them with stolen candies and toffees picked up from the streets.

Little skulls form a pile behind a urinal.
Their jaws are wide open — as if in an eternal shriek.

No one hears them.

A little child is tethered to a urinal in front. He is gagged with a 100 year old underwear, bloodstained, cum soaked just as the queen liked it.
He is the sacrifice.
Coyotes in khaki come in their jeeps.
His existence is snatched away into oblivion.

In order to recreate the fortresses they so loved to lived in, the moles have made their fortifications with blood-tipped iron rods and bottles which stink like intestines.

It rattles like a snake when the new vermin speed past them in their imported cars or helicopters.

Sometimes they stop for a piss or a shit.
As if drowning the city in their sewage wasn’t enough.

But the old diseased refuse, “No incest with ugly brothers,” they say, “No use collecting the same HIV in the ass.” They like variety.

They spit and leave, pissing their pants with their blown up egos shattered. They are so used to fuck that they have forgotten how it feels to have their asses ripped apart. They have forgotten their childhood.

The old hags wave.

They know that its only some years after which they too will join them in their ass-whoring.
That’s part of the game.

“We’ll be waiting,” they scream.

And the cycle of death completes itself.

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