Theses on fantasy (hope)
I.
A woman presses her eyelids tight and clutches her child to her chest. A man walks into the room. She opens her eyes in time to watch her intestines limp onto the dust. They betray a note of surprise. As do her intestines.
II.
A man presses his eyelids tight and thinks of 6 numbers. He sees himself draped over thrones of shimmering gold, sour bubbles on his lips and a woman of finest Uzbek silk prostrate before him: thriving under the weight of so much decadence. He opens his eyes and the same numbered eyeballs stare straight back at him.
III.
A girl. She spends her nights with her hands pressed together, pointing to the ceiling, imagining a room full of people and a smiling face.
One day A girl limps into a room full of people. A man pays for her drink. She ascends to heaven suspended across the wings of four score cherubim. After three days she plummets; they could not suspend her under the weight of so much expectation; they are only babies.
IV.
A man looks across a throng, a glut of humanity. On the face of a red hill, in a distant future, he sees the table of brotherhood layed for black and white mouths. They laugh and smile, and their eyes betray nothing of the sweltering heat of injustice. Should they?
V.
A man walks into a room. His teeth glint at the roof as he mutters a silent thanks. His fingers, the cleaver; he smells the blood of the infidel and the scream of an infant.
‘Where is your god now?’
‘Maybe he’s busy.’
I.
A woman presses her eyelids tight and clutches her child to her chest. A man walks into the room. She opens her eyes in time to watch her intestines limp onto the dust. They betray a note of surprise. As do her intestines.
II.
A man presses his eyelids tight and thinks of 6 numbers. He sees himself draped over thrones of shimmering gold, sour bubbles on his lips and a woman of finest Uzbek silk prostrate before him: thriving under the weight of so much decadence. He opens his eyes and the same numbered eyeballs stare straight back at him.
III.
A girl. She spends her nights with her hands pressed together, pointing to the ceiling, imagining a room full of people and a smiling face.
One day A girl limps into a room full of people. A man pays for her drink. She ascends to heaven suspended across the wings of four score cherubim. After three days she plummets; they could not suspend her under the weight of so much expectation; they are only babies.
IV.
A man looks across a throng, a glut of humanity. On the face of a red hill, in a distant future, he sees the table of brotherhood layed for black and white mouths. They laugh and smile, and their eyes betray nothing of the sweltering heat of injustice. Should they?
V.
A man walks into a room. His teeth glint at the roof as he mutters a silent thanks. His fingers, the cleaver; he smells the blood of the infidel and the scream of an infant.
‘Where is your god now?’
‘Maybe he’s busy.’