Urban Flesh

They made up a surgeon’s hand. Dissecting concrete housing blocks and perishing tarmac roads, slicing away incongruously overgrown marks of humanity to remove the infected tissue of life. A healing process, they said, the men and women who orchestrated the diggers, cranes and wrecking balls with balletic elegance. From their elevated vantage point at least.

How much beauty could be seen from below, in the midst of the crashing squalor of the cut up urban flesh itself, was a moot point. Surgery could be a bloody business, but the cutting hand couldn’t be allowed to see it. Uncertain tremors were risked by an awareness of anything but the sterile perfection of the well managed operation and blindness was a favour done to the victims, one to fend off doubt that could cause a slip.

That was their unspoken defence at least, though, in truth, the beauty of remoteness was too precious to give up.

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Rat Run

What do you call this future? The one at the end of the rat run you’ve built out of today and into tomorrow? The one we can see as a pin-prick at the end of the tunnel, a pin-prick of grey light and confinement. Why do you want us to go there? Really, why? What motivates you to shepherd us with threats, prods and promises of milk and honey which sound bitter even as you speak them? We’re still playing in yesterday’s rubbish after all. Our attentions are all hooked on sun faded Tango cans and empty crisp wrappers we left as a legacy from our childhood to remind us of the way home. Maps formed of artifacts from our own antiquity which we’re more than happy to struggle to decipher because at least we know the juvenile cartographers drew those lines without guile or malice.

Why should we, why would we dash into a clean and compressed passage which leads to nothing more than sterile light and a dream you can’t explain? A dream where all the rest has been swept away?

How are you going to make us?

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