Your Business Here – GRSTALT Comms

I might be out of road here, maybe they’re right this time, they told me the road is as wide as it is long, might be better to peel off and get comfortable in the mud, you start seeing yourself in their light after a while, all the angles you’ve tried to keep hid get magnified, short breaths and long silences, the small comfort of not having to feel the wind against your face, burning away any excess sensation, they’ve already taken their best shots anyway, there’s nowhere that hasn’t been worked over by eager young knuckles, tender and repentant under strip bulbs, putting your maladies on full display for an audience of specially selected washouts, your smell was in every inch of that place, it’s mine now too, I invested in the best detergents but nothing shifted it, it’s coming with me on the steady descent into unincorporated zones, my ears are closed to any sound beyond a comfortable register, it’s all a sort of peripheral hum, my own voice rattles my aching jaw and vibrates my retreating cheeks, people get out of their cars and lean out of windows in the surrounding buildings, a siren isn’t the same to me anymore, just another moan among the bedtime chorus, the body is a compromised judge, these creatures that have been stepped into the asphalt, a faded outline where the refuse collects, this is the last place before the surface gets treacherous and the signs are just interpretations of progress, the denizens spill out of pockmarked SRO blocks where you wake up 45 with a sense of your connivance in the steady rot separated by seeping partitions, shouts barely dampened by fibre tiles, collecting in ducts where their churning keeps you up, daylight dares me to spray the forecourt with my special brand of acid, squinting up at the buildings that smirk in the face of approaching collapse, squatting on the site of the next great development coup, boredom as the new gold, we’ll all get moved further out to where the river’s dry and the land’s cracked, gawping at the blinding delights of a new leisure experience, you can feel the ground shudder with impatience, ready to wipe away caked layers of makeup, the soup kitchen zealots ladle out watery reminders to wash down their tracts with, but humiliation beats salvation every time, and we’ll all be travelling through the desert soon anyway, I tell them it was all so preventable, the illness was allowed to spread, our boredom was treated with measured doses and targeted shocks, we got to find out the exact gravity of a body, what each part is valued at, how much can be chipped away and still leave a recognisable person behind, we sold strips of ourselves to the biggest distributors, your exit couldn’t be faulted for style, you gave them a beautiful bunch of meat, gracing the most prestigious plates, when you’ve conquered their gut there’s nowhere left to explore, running only gets you closer to the next obstacle, two moons hauled out of storage to represent the glory of expansion, I tell them our remains will be baked into the original bricks, the ashes will smell so nice.