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...