Imaginary Cities | PC Bangs

That vision of you standing in the snow was my secret talisman, a lucky charm to ward off bad weather, frosted lips and crunch hips. This time, dumbstruck by seasonal variations, I'm moving slowly along a gigantic wedge, following my own reversed footprints in the hope of getting home before dark. That monkey, sitting on the dead tree bough, brought up insane cackles from deep within me, then was gone. This dream, in which all the scenes freeze as if it's a dirty dvd, causes strong motion within my stomach, and the wind's howling and the tree is gone. That might sound melodramatic but I'm unfamiliar with sub-zero survival and I've got no idea how to keep out the forgetfulness of cold. This bridge, festooned with ice tentacles, promises nothing in the way of supplies, shelter, fire or rest. That bar is no longer there, so I dream of plum wine as if it is my own blood, unfreezable, treacle-like, swaying. This nightmare, that recurrs, involves a long boat and a knife.

Alligators crawl through the slippered streets, punctuating the monks' marches for alms. Bathed in a tropical punch glow, the women wash green vegetables in the shallows by the wharf. Cradled in her mother's arms, a moon baby peeks out from her blanket of snow with cinnamon eyes. Deaf boys run shouting through the markets, each point of pressure upon a sack or bale containing languages, symbols, conversations, memory. Everywhere the smell of pine needles and gunpowder, as the chiefs gather straws on the reed mats, then toss once more for fortune. Forgiven, the street dogs return from their dark pound, whining majestically all the while. Gnawing at an old sock, the village cat does not even deign to move as the early train shoots past its tiny sphere of influence. Having given up on dancing, two drunk men stagger towards a wall that's already warm, and somehow jam wedge themselves between the soft earth and the curiously expanding bricks. Imagine a world like this, where you

It's just been built but already you can see the tyre-marks on the roundabouts, the skidding tales of midnight smashes and the crumbs of shattered glass. City without a history, merely a pamphlet, that used to be handed out at the now-closed tourist information centre. The letters of its name have been stickered crookedly onto the glass, and the decor of the booth's interior betrays all the tell-tale signs of a 1980s housing development. City of reconstructed dragons and false ceilings. City of site meetings and grazing animals. City designed to correct the imbalances in a country with too many empty cities and only one that's worthy of the name. Administrative districts, quiet districts, lane districts, wooden districts. Empty allotments. White markers and red string. Nevertheless you can feel a certain hope in the air, a kind of metaphorical rumbling in the bellies of its brand-new inhabitants. City of roses and frog-marches. A city that comes on to you innocently, like a

Mokochukcha, you know you want to. Look at me: I want to. Look at everyone else: they want to. You want to. Stay. Mokochukcha, do you know what happens to yesterdays? Do they turn into tomorrows? Who cares, your glass is empty. Mokochukcha, I’m seeing lots of purple and strawberry colours. Is this bad? Please tell me it’s okay. You’re all purple. I’m purple. Mokochukcha, I want to dance but my feet are unwilling and there’s no one to dance with. You know you want to. Shall we? Mokochukcha, is this eternity? Your smile? Our crazy dance? Is this what keeps people up all night, long after they should be at home in bed? Mokochukcha, what do you dream of besides crazy dancing? Do you get drunk in your dreams too? I know I do. I do all sorts of things. Mokochukcha, look at me: are people born for each other, or just for themselves? Why do we have to die anyway? Perhaps you know. Mokochukcha, let’s meet up again. In a soju bar, in a nightclub or even on the street. I'll recognise you and

Once upon a time there was a piece of paper through which the words printed on the other side could not be seen, a piece of paper so thick it might have been made of wood. Twice upon a time there was a transparent screen through which one could see the other side of the world, a screen so tantalising you almost wanted to stick your hand in it. Three times upon a time there was a window through which fish could fly, bursting out into daylight and dying right in front of you on the cobblestones. Four times upon a time there was a fish so smart it could survive out of water, flipping about and using its tail to order drinks, hail cabs and enter security codes. Five times upon a time there was a security code that was so secure it hadn't even been thought of yet, but existed nevertheless, inside the brain of a super-intelligent fish. Six times upon a time there was a thought so rarified it could not survive in the human brain, and thus had to be thrown away, like a dead fish. Seven ti

City that encloses many other cities, like a lunch pail filled with multiple containers, each of which holds a prescribed number of foodstuffs - nuts, sultanas, rice, meatstuffs, tapioca, croutons, larvae. An anti city formed from invisible matter, shifting its colours and contours, blown by desert winds and dream tornadoes. An atro city filled with horrors, spikes and black smoke, spewing out deformed mutants and scar slogans, calling to the darkness within your ventricles. An auda city stretched like a dare from the limb of a still-green tree, or coiled in the bottom of a soul boat, ready to be thrown, fastened or used to hang other cities from. A basi city of which it is not necessary to speak, or even dream, hidden inside another city whose governmental complexes defy the bureaucratic imagination, if it even exists. A cadu city so moribund its whimpers sound like stolen curses, hampered by sticky constraints and medical technicalities, falling through sleep into a deep well of madn