in ersatz arcadia

“It’s oh so quiet, shh, shh,
It’s oh so still, shh, shh,
You’re all alone, shh, shh,
And so peaceful until…”

The mirror sighed, and reflected all it saw;

The little boy Greek wheeled his horse through the city, blanketed beneath a filthy cloud of smug. He took it through the gates; an escape – from the grey-gazing suburban synthetic, the distrustful Etruscans. And took himself to bed; and, between the sheets, thought better of going back outside – all plans now abandoned.

Outside the world, revolted, revolved, as upon its face the suburbs crawled and left a nasty scratch.

It is morning. And Rosie fingered Dawn, and blushed. And got strung up for her crimes.
At a coffeestop farmer’s market, the courgeoisie swan disconnected between the stalls. They probe cautiously into the stock and pray to uncover, between the dried-up sods, some double-jointed rutabaga, some haute couture carrot. Astride their crisp green bale’s, the farmers flog them everything they’ve got.
Then, a daring drink in the city’s Fauxhemian Quartzer; “mocha chocalata?” “yah, I think there’s something Ethiopium in it.” “really good.” “yah. really good. but piles on the pounds.” “oh really? that’s funny. I’ve shed loads today already.”
And they go home to knit their minds close; and multiply, and suburban sprawl across their dark Indian divans. And multiply, and multiply, and multiply.

It is afternoon in Ocadia. The asparagus children announce themselves and smear their scent right up to the city limits – beyond which lie the uncultivated real estates in the east, and unconquerable real estate in the west.
And the whimpering little sprats all turn tail at first sight of those sub-suburban wolves and those counter-urban hounds. Crabbling away into the Orchard – some plum for scrumping, some prick the brambles. But Little Maximillian would but wont, could but cant, “but it musses up the harr”, he wont go near the Barbarians ona count of whut they done to Big Sammii. Little Erronius dusnt uhndersthand, his mum’s old testament, strictly pre-lapcaesarian. Princess Claptrapra uhndersthands, though- shell sit with him outside the nearest cloyster bar instead.
The weather winces onwards, and the little devilles go wilty in the heat. Away again, into interior designs they retreat. Where their prep awaits them, but mum realises its an atrocity. The au pair will get them into grad school. “mine did the very same for me and your uncle – she got us all the way through university.”

It is evening, and everything is wet with the hopeless rain of rebellion. The teenagers smirk, and red wine over their contrary fish suppers. “this shit’s too dark. this should be white. this isn’t right at all.” “daddy took all the white stuff. and mummy doesn’t garnish our mushrooms like the other mummys do.”
But Daddy relents, and it’s Havanas all round – except for the tots in their cots, who must learn from cigarillos first.
Spider-slinking out, the teenagers fake a congregation for the Merlot; fake their confessions for the Body of the sea-girls who are round for the weekend; and shrink from their pathetic Insubstantiations.
Word gets round of the weekly woodland wave, the reeking rural rave. Where the weaklings weave their way. Johnny wears his best rubber raincoat for Fanny – even if she isn’t getting wet, he’ll say she did. He is a hero.
They stream into the forest, all slacks and suspenders, all slack and suspended. Twenty-seven DJs from twenty-seven public schools entertain the troops from home. They play the hits, they play them all the hits: The Black Angel’s Death Song (Dubstep Mix) by Crystal Castles; Smells Like Teen Espirit (European Mix) by Crystal Castles; Rapper’s Delight (Euro-Dub Mix) by Crystal Castles; Children of the Revolution (Overdub Mix) by Crystal Castles.
To their ecstatic soundtrack, the revel rebellers realise the unnatural beauty of the place. They sit inspired – a trickle of the pooling drool of concentration resounding a classical geek chorus, croaking: brekekekex coke coke. The pine-cones and syringes make for aesthetic installation. The crisps become metaphor, “everyone’s baked”. And the DJs lash themselves back to the past when they hear that Siren Song coming. Everybody else is just darling freeze-framed in the spotlights.
But Daddy picks them up before tomorrow’s bacon and baguettes. “Thank Havanas above your mother doesn’t know.”

It is Sunday in Wakefield Suburbia. I slump robe-clothed and dream-stung alone into the morning. A Holy Trinity stroll pug-faced past: father, son and lowly host. They greet another Holy Trinity, their son was disappointingly a she. Say ménage à trois to ménage à trois, what say you invest your he in our she? Reply ménage à trois to ménage à trois, indeed, we’ll a third triumvirate breed – where do you suppose Re:public schools?

“The sky caves in,
The devil cuts loose,
You blow blow blow blow blow your fuse, ahhh.”

j.

post-script: so this pretty much sums up the Conservatory i live in.

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One Response to “in ersatz arcadia”

  1. baldcrusaderman Says:

    WHAT DID I JUST READ

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