The Artist Of The City

The artist’s tongue is as long as the skyscraper.

She licks the streets, the cars, the roads, the wall with piss on it and the beggarly children infested with fleas.

She takes it all into her belly.

Digests it in her stomach.

Pushes it down into her womb where it gestates.

She sleeps on the floor covered with a snowfall of white talcum powder.

She borrowed the powder from the eunuchs of every neighbourhood.

She lathers it on to herself everynight.

The scent makes her orgasm.

The powder is the dust which flows freely in the city.

It is unseen because it is never too much.

Just a thin layer floating in the air like mist.

Just enough to let people breathe, just enough to suffocate them and yet not kill them.

One can see the powder in the artist’s art work.

One can see speckles of it in the hair of the corpse which she made.

One can see it in the frozen orgasm of the gigantic penis which is installed on the streets where the sluts come to mourn their lovers.

One can see it in the crucified dog who hangs on the dome of the parliament, refusing to die.

The powder is the city.

The powder is the artist.

You hate it.

But it is in your breath.

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