The Noise

The noises could be heard loudly, everywhere, clanging and abrupt, dogs bleating their ill training and visciousness, traffic noise staining the horizon like dry rot spikes, winding through the remnant foliage like snakes, a chemical spill, an oil slick, an endlessly rearing tide, absorbing everything beneath, consuming all relentlessly, until its digesting mass would devour itself in a terrifying and ugly event of greater noise and filth, pulsating like the maggot riddled corpse of some strayed farm animal, swollen in stench amongst the derelict undergrowth that splits open concrete of yet one more betrayal of land.

Beyond all this, far enough for distance to dull clarity with atmospherics, once proud and ancient monuments to time and forces, the very humus from which long dead gods inhabited; mountains, had been skinned alive, lanced and twisted from their ground by incalculable minions, working, tirelessly blinkered for each and every ones need for a little bite to eat and the production of stones for boxes, housing them and their garishly empty, schematised, billboarded routes between; the white noise producers of that horizon lines, utterly soaked and incredulous, dry rot hum.

This landscape, an enormous work of art whose author bears no name but infinity, silently endures its rape and dismantling of allegory, picked at, loosing pigment and the alchemical minerals of that untitled, timeless and amorphous opacity of magic, mans blood, his mind, unable to comprehend and attacking, cannabilizing.