1 May 2012
Afterward there shall be silence or at least stillness. Dust will blow down Greek Street, the uncollected bins overflowing. Leaves from the end of a cold autumn shall lie crisp in the gutters and pigeons will pick at the remains of food from roadside restaurants. Shadows clinging to walls could remind you of people you once knew, their every detail outlined like a bargain basement headstone above their dust remains.
Lovers, once supple, now entwined like brittle twigs in bed-sits, sealed and stagnant in ancient tombs. Fruit, vegetables and fish fill the insides of silent refrigerators with putrid, amalgamate mass; biscuits and teabags - frowsty amongst stacks of tinned soup, peas and beans; onions become fat and dry and finally tasteless next to shrivelled cloves of red garlic. The lino on kitchen floors gradually warps and folds like a slow, fat ocean while windows gape open and shattered, allowing clouds of smog to filter through as dunes beneath a shuttered sun.
Bathtubs are a graveyard for spiders and earwigs, matted in short hairs and decaying body fat. Open packets of Marlboro, B&H and Embassy are still useable though growing stale on blistered coffee tables, littered with the cool, black glass from TVs and video screens; CDs are rippled and useless; teacups chipped and blasted; discoloured wood dissolves layer by layer into entropy; power sockets hang limp from bowing interior walls; carpets cover floors with the threadbare ineptitude of gauze; pens are discarded without heads, wrinkled and sticky.
Shoes line darkened hallways in panicked disarray and rats curl like overripe apples against bucked skirting boards. Bottles of red age in splintered racks; the sky stares at the ground, neutral and impassive. The world inside is a crippled bastard to that without.
J. x
A Pre Apocalyptic Monologue [PART II] • Opuss № I