The pinprick of loss

We had gathered - by Obelisk Vanguard

I managed to crawl up inside the clock tower one night and was saddened to see that the mechanism is well and truly knackered with little hope of repair. Inside, there were three bars; a front bar facing Atlantic Road, a smaller bar with an entrance on Electric Lane and behind that a long bar serving the large stage/ballroom area.

That’s how I deal with it I guess. Being strong as the winds kick in, when leaving the warehouse dungeons, which are concealed from the street and the blue-light hours by conspicuous factories or houserows, and I’m slowly scuttling back to the mainstreets with the tickle of industrial beats and sequencers gradually dropping out my ears. The pinprick of loss. Far-off spring-ness crispens the stillness, cold-but-warmer air betraying the nearness that the next season promises. Jagged graffiti on the icy concrete slabs, livening them up with fluorescent tags on these space-age alleyways, with the overhead light railway joining up the occasional clustered talltowers in a glorious beaconed line that is like a future route on an otherworld planet.

“As the tension builds, as the tension,” flecked ad infinitum into glacier backlanes and alongside coldpuff curses and conversations. Hail of taxi radios. Olive-oil blushes coming from petite brick arches, ones that make the sandstone look almost black. So I’m wandering here bathing in my own failings as I flash through the carnival concoctions at the hotchpotch bus stops that confuse even the drivers. Dotted late-nighters curled up too small on the sparse upper-decks, often surprising me with an outstretched boot or discordant grunt. What do I want what do I want what do I need what do I time is getting old and taking me with it as the night becomes a fridge and then comes out the other side as a frozen fakelight. Still the ears ringing from hours before. Or is it something I’ve invented? Swollen cake of both, probably. Memories of those kick drums rising and falling on their bed of the sub-bass. Ravetown plush in a little cockle shell. The night making its inevitable way towards numbed bodies, through the gregarious alleys until it gets back to the source of the just-gone midnight missions. Breaking that source. Muffling the illusion.

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11