Tracers from the traffic lights spread down vacated night streets, the outskirt city blocks swamped in perpetual blue light. The lights don’t change now, not since they started to glow like compressed ice, the soft beams crawling along the asphalt, stalking up to shadows requesting caresses.
The headspace moseys through the streets, along empty roads where cracks in the pavement blink and eyelashes whisper and retract. The stars are blu-ray junkies, the standby screen negotiating pinholes. Bars serve up blob glasses filled with water, fizzing white effervescent tablets. In a world that deified gut rot and rushed to a token remedy.
A boy stammers while using hammers,
On his first erection.
A seizure parade marches in silence, ticker tape plasters soaking up the shower of spit. Every one of them is covered in a bruise over the entirety of the body, and naked since to dress amplifies their pain. The ones who clench out a piece of tongue feel a relief sanctioned by a bandit nanny from long ago, who stroked hair and sang lullabies about dead horses.
The headspace tracks the byways and receives. Since the dissolution of the last kleptocracy a simple lawlessness has crept the land, the few bodies left after the show too saturated with content to function, tranquillised with themselves, as individuals. They sit indoors, staring at the windows, lit up with the blue light from the street, timeless and after dark.
The ghost disputes of violent domestics emanate from inside brick homes, but the rooms are empty upon entry, suburban mausoleums, all shady. The headspace wanders upstairs where the blue light falls along landings, and the door to the main bedroom opens into a nebula of countless whirling stars that are a memory to be kept forever.
Out through the window now and floating above the paths, gingerly recounting days spent with unsecured wrist bindings, daubed with cover girl warpaint. Past a glowing cigarette end, disembodied, the exhaled smoke of an invisible figure forming a churning ball which pursues until a foreign street.
The buildings are taller and darker, and the doorways breathe. A woman, glowing from inside and from every nude part, walks her freakish beauty along the centre line of the road, against the black. She’s drawing herself away. Snails, feigning hibernation, stick to her. She sways carefully, to leave them undisturbed, attached.
Headspace meets the beautiful woman and passes on by—over sleeping policemen where the surface is black speaker, playing tinny breakbeats. Infrasound beckons, and a line of faded child stars emerges from the noise, their sallow complexions a receptacle for the inverse snobbery of underclass young adults who only exist in megabytes.
A foghorn of such spectral joy as to devastate the tired soul trumpets majestically from some unreachable distance, filled with magic and sober melancholy. The city in unending darkness stops to wither in response.
Rebecca Gransden lives on an island and writes sometimes. She can be found on Twitter @rlgransden and online occasionally at rebeccagransden.wordpress.com.