Posted by Erik Moshe on Sunday, July 1, 2012 Under: Poetry
Nomadic herders of the internet era, collectors of foreign platinum tablets rush onboard the bullet train. A world of ever-faster transcommunication, a trip to every major city, village, and strip club and more proudly endorsed by the conductor, a humble man of 47. Tan lines meet tea leaves in a synchronous pattern of weaved wrinkles, reaching down the throat of Sakamoto. A sip of small sake, boiled not stirred, and the world is left behind yet again. English meets Japanese, meets Chinese in multi-cultural bilingual Iguana tales, the differences in culture and geography mixed in blue. The internet bows in a small silence @ # dot twitter.
Getting the full experience is like running your hands through the spirits of goldfish. The soul of locomotion itself. The only continental drift where you can toke your machinery and drift where the water fountains become geysers and the maintenance workers receive pensions for their supernatural travel logistics. Through fields of singing pores and the cameras boding you well - the Viet Cong sunrise a distant memory now, fading in the distant sycophants. A mixture of Hayato Sakurai, Masaharu Morimoto, Kazuyuki Fujita and Toshinori Kondo. You’ll find your way with the right nose leading you…
Mineral deposits of genius, creativity, and dysprosium fuel the craze of the generation known as Y. A future of talking eyewear and self-fulfilling prophecies await the new monetary-driven land of cosplay. A land of new identity- built under the guise of Shigeru Miyamoto, God of all that is Nintendo. The blending of traditions into anime, Pixar, and the next group of female singers, fighting for justice wearing this year's smallest skirt- Brought to you by the world's richest magistrate, demon of the stock market.
Broken promises sting like swansong fractures. Imperialist regimes topple when braced against the bamboo legionares waiting with their technologic nets: ready to catch the next opportune moment. The train stops. Commuters release tension. Animation fills the advertisement boards - people just want to walk and enjoy and consume and respect… the nature that brought them this humanist conglomeracy. At Shanghai’s daybreak, watch it zip across the screen. It’ll give your reality a forward spin you’ll remember for all time. A bibliographical magnate becoming the atlas to this cyclone of a landscape.
A shrug into the distance and day breaks for night. A second wind of the like-minded hive- workers for the centersphere. Reality peered into the glass of HD wine, a new taste for technology. Help: purpose-wanted. An unknown plea, insomniac dreams of green fissures, unattainable grasp for the poverty-stricken. The cursed mindset that begets cursed mindset of drone-driven workplace blues, factories for the next Adidas shoes. Another wonder born through lost hearts of today's medium, the youth-meet-elder in a sea of mutual respect and disdain. One must show professional courtesy to the Queen of England.
Write to your mind's content- forced words for the chosen Chopin. The endorphin-rush marred by fragile insecurity, killer of novel storytellers.
Listening to DJ Krush’s “Slit of Cloud” while escaping from the grid is the best way to begin your morning. Strong winds would cast your food down into the pitfalls of your stomachs, but you brought digestive measures into this world. Below the lavender cabin floors is a moving sky snake in the winding strata, progressively making Pol Pottery grow into the beauty of a number of eternal gardens. Waves burst upon the shores of megalomania - even the Triads get caught in the cross-hammering of dawn and dusk. You’ll fall in love when your calling’s up. Recruitment is a dark nitwit. Pacing back and forth along the train tracks, handing out flyers. The mechanics in the manufactured smog can only flash their headlights for you to see them. 1% locked down by the oil giants, 99% ready for their lunch breaks. The beak of the long rectangular dragon fierce in the breeze, chewing on fireweed. Spreading ecological welfare. The fair distribution of electric power. The basic needs of a nutritional diet for infrared structures. How do we navigate the hilltops as independent bandwagons? Will the national flag of Japan be a pool of our blood if we don’t stop to negate the whiteness of dead space surrounding our futures in a multidimensional world of fast moving sonars?
The train stops when the industry halts after its last long stretch and the welders have disembarked for rice bowls and the garments of women. The conductor, a married man, clocks out and steps into a lobby which leads to the gateway to mainland. He resumes his place with the other street marketers. Luckily he brought the towel his wife had given the previous day. He swam through many lands on his shift.
In : Poetry