Imaginary Cities | PC Bangs

there's another country buried here in the ground under all this snow - i can see it in the rice field rows how the white flakes make them look like the flat plane of hanok rooves & as if some long-departed designer (maybe even king sejong) had seen it just this way & thought (in all of this order i smell yin & yang merge white moon above the dim bird below the empty furrows coated like tiles & here i will make my sweeping arcs their exponential gentleness (earth a dragon emerges every springtime to pounce upon their ancestors' burial mounds (but for now they too remain cloaked in snow - like turtle shells awaiting another frozen invasion ... there's another country buried here in the ground under all this snow - i see it in the perfect hanok fields another place for my mind to grow

It's the sound of a whipcrack, (whiplash on the windswept road It's the sound of reed engines (engine reels & carburettors It's the sound of a small purr (purrpure lubricants that whirr It's the sound of exploded cans (canplode diode transmissions It's the sound of pine whispers (pinepanic at the smell of snow It's the sound of radio burning (radiospherical planetoid buzz It's the sound of dim mechanics (dim stars on a shadowed orbit It's the sound of transplants (plantlungs panting for daylight It's the sound of beige burrs (burrpools rotating mindlessly It's the sound of abstract drills (drilldown to the rotten old core It's the sound of puncture hums (humdrums split like the rapeseed It's the sound of modest tools (foolswept into the convex blades

you better run, squirrel ... destinations detonate like the coyote on acme or speed my runners wear thin again - it's time to go back to the tourist (iii) troubles i've seen em (stacked them high lived them low better clear out of this saloon & hope a time machine comes soon ... sitting inside a pentagon (shooting aliens is more fun than it looks send home an ordinary book hear the killer drone it's a shoelace they've untied forgotten homework inside a locker full of pin-ups & baseball pendants at home in the brochured suburb i took a spin in the rhyme machine pedalling madly just to make these hours swim in buckets shortened calls - the snowy breezes & the freshly paved street sheets of burning rubber castle motels conventions buses without destinations