Different Skies
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PlaygroundSkye McDade-Burn

1. For some the tsunami, for others the dead beach

History comes as anti rush. A tumbling empty shadow, pushing unfolds it, traces of black in black. As soon as she was gone. Static tinkling. The picnic set pulled far out into the ocean. Our own gasoline tango of concrete and steel turning over in a  wave, bursting the banks of our screen. Valiantly rebuilding in the chaos, unknown workers are taken away as people jump into cars, scores announce and bling cops racketeer. And where is this all coming from? Shouting pillars, regal rooms, places where thoughts become definitions, parameters encoded into snakes to slide into everything. The carpet is a gas field. The meaning of extreme. Here he met the men who would go on to join his army. A hunk of meat faces off.  Text replicated on multiple pages by a printer. But look again to see the moment before: it’s all sucked so far out: a vast beachy black exposure: wreck ripped trees. The ocean is gone and we are rotting, are trying to hold it together. Black rolls over into black, sloshing around into itself, loving itself, spilling onward onto fresh sheets of paper, content in itself, feeling itself and letting it be moved by itself. Always leaving a residue: strolling through the market, licking the fruit, glaring at everyone who passes by till they look away, and grinning – baring teeth – and birthing laughter at us all. Lying down beneath a tree and melting through into the soft, dry soil. Now seep down warmly in search of damp roots underground. A bright red spot on each thyroid.

2. Into the brightness of the playground

Reeling sides past grey ground. Facing opening to the kiss; reaching up to speak with barriers, where push is greenfenced, the wisp of where dragons were folds back to be forgotten. Before movement, roaring furious this difference, an animal shouting (now!) jumping forward. Taking part in everything. Here, the grunt is near and close: the cold bright day. Laughter and incomprehension. She stalks and she walks proud rude on the body. Screaming gravel. The box-being-combiner is always coming alive and falling away. Aluminium walls. Roaring of the false car: the way it picks up people. Flat basketball arc. A rush finds a way, blending into air to bounce it back. Through the lasers of the walking sight-centres. It all gets mapped around this set of islands, floating in confusion, stately, unpredictable.

How do soldiers walk? I want straight lines. The voice follows you home. D6 sniper select for efficiency/fun. Glowing lightgod, a great lightness, pane of glass sweep. Held. There is a virtual space for reaching but never touching, never contacting, forever spreading out and so not quite biting into what isn’t there behind. Sitting on foam. Still watching, barely moving. A siphon causes liquid to flow upwards, through to another place, pulled by the fall of the liquid lower. Dragged over a threshold of glass, a slimy tongue or buzzing muscle, and everything reduced from jelly to water and doubled. Liver occupied: enzyme switch. The smooth grey wind filtered through the valet’s clipped moustache; very soft rain began to fall. There was something else though. What was growing alongside was fat. 

When someone did finally come, I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. 

There was a war in Gaza, do you know about that? In school, glass sliding into the air. Me and my army of invisible snakes trying to push their way over everything. This is what happens in the daytime: subterranean trumpets. A raging force that comes from you and takes in everything, uses it and is abandoned in a situation: tarmac, threats and zones where we navigate and try. But the ocean drains into the middle: us played by the feeling of shouting it. Turning around our kinetic obelisk. 

3. Rumble of the institution

Trading. Passing something between us. The hum of mutual definition in the clamour of background space. The tarmac is alive: the great puppet-project, brickflesh. Reaching out over the chasm, to touch fingertips. Swarming around him, kicking. Across the country something is born of the institution. Already in it. Already kicking and running. Sergeant, slip into these airforms. A Californian smile opens up between the clouds and it is windy and cold. Something has to burn and everyone is already dripping with oil. Try to avoid the random mutating walls of anger. Try to scrub it off in the shower.

So held up in what this is: insults scraped in by a coffee eyed monster. Steaming passwords. Continuous testing of what is in the middle, within our shared space of institutional this. Groping for the us that we made in this hot personal hope. 

4. New Cosmos

Opening leaves of happiness or at least the switching on of brain functions and partial pushing back of human frontiers. Curling round like smoke, before language is noise is music is symbol and shape. Just an open heart pulsing a warm body and the pleasure of listening. Crackling embers up into the night sky, slowly leaning back to let the grass and weeds contemplate moving shadows. This is twilight, the time of absorption and growth.

5. In the Cave with the White Witchdoctor

Interior destimulates. Form the noise-war. Blocks of marble silence swell and crush as she groups, deepens the connections which bind subjects. Black barred red columned absolute correlative of distraction; sculpting porcelain bowls from raw energy, enter the white witchdoctor. Tubes carry high rush density from furnace one. Slowly forces up into the cavity. At the end the product is thin brass scraper arms, scratching into wax. Concorde soaring wearily between thick grey snowclouds. Inside something was pounding.

But we don’t just let these milk-balloon-toupees eat salmon sandwiches under bone willows. The rude bum fart-bar-baby is born in nuggets, hahaha. The tiny word screams and screams in the waiting room. Quick doctor, get the pillows! Birds chirp at the windows, frogs croak in the sink, flowers spring up from your chest and fill the air with stinky bum. But after all, the carpet will be dry-cleaned again. This is a chortling scratch that daily gets raised up to a judicial plane devoid of ideas and broadcast as a mindless docudrama. The puppet grabs the strings and brings the human down to its own level, where both become animals. Like a head without hair, bright red and shining in the desert heat. Bring the noise!