Monday, December 08, 2008

Its a civil war.

Its in the news and papers everywhere, people. This country is being plagued by dissidents. The world doesnt seem to want to take notice, they care that the airport is back open. The germans are happy, in their ugly ways of the veins of the sex-trade opened again. The ideals being paraded around, puritanical, mostly, but I think I see the real truth.

The factions have broken all over, there aren't many who aren't rearing up for the conflict. The north siders have built their army on the backs of pygmy elephants struggling through the jungles, saddled with decorative spears, and cheap taiwanese speakers blasting the interminable bland techno that developing countries love. The factions are built to defend their own jungles, starved of all but the most basic staples of their diet: sugar, ginger, and rancid liquor.

The puritanical beliefs keep them away from that, but the liquor gives the elephants courage. They stamp the bottles with pictures of elephants, everything is a goddamn elephant out here. The paths through, that havn't been stomped with craggy cement blocks or sprayed with toxic pesticides, which threaten to melt the gaudy accouterments, and rebranded electronics, the real jungles hide the mounting factions.

The mountains buried by the smoke of industry, people too concerned with growth and survival than to take the arrogance that they should preserve it. This is more camouflage.

To the south I hear there are other factions, the islands overrun with fat Britons, swilling the same cheap elephant liquor with a nicer label. Folklore tells thats what make their noses grow. Cultural pomposity leaving their shirts off, arrogant, white flab roasting under peanut oil in the sun. Circled with crops of dead sandfleas, choking bite by bite the toxic white rumps.

The factions leave them be, and in fact are almost unnoticed. Mulim frogmen, wrapped in linen with scuba gear pass calmly through the waters unbeknownst to the Britons, snoring through their big fucked up teeth, mumbling about white pudding.

Indeed, the political strife in the center. The airports, was just political theatre, pawns in a war to never be described. The techno elephants, the muslim frogmen, drawing closer together, but never crossing the main paths. To keep the tranquility, to keep both sides funded quietly, to keep both ends sustained, oxygen tanks full and elephants drunk. How else could it be.

Im in the city. A large one, up at the north end. I havn't seen elephants. There is a tourist trap nearby where I can pay to watch them fuck. I havn't taken up that offer yet. The city is bustling as always, chock full of peasant women too busy working to try to be pretty, the men too busy catcalling the white people to hustle to waste on the women.

In the city they dont know about the war, what the war to be is. The people who write the papers tell me its political theatre. The yellow jackets, and the red jackets, who all scream the same words, but want different things. Its probably not that.

The future, the past is all war, war and resources. War only makes sense when there is money to be made. There is no money in drunk elephants, no oil in scuba muslims. We pine, and bitch about the inconvenience, cast a worried eye to the endless charades.

"At least we don't have these problems in South Africa".

The charades moved on, but threatened to cut the only real resource. The corpulent westerners, who drink down the elephant poison.

It might just be under my feet. Or scurrying around in the walls in front of me. I couldn't tell anymore. Cities are all the same in the end. Washed up gentrified restaurants selling the safe parts of animals. Always an odd linger of farts in the air.

The great american cities all smell like farts, too. I can't think of one that doesnt. The europeans were built on their own shit, damn near wiped them out. A civilization has arrived when they can hold hands and say "our cities smell of farts, the equal of Paris or New York".

Farts are still a better smell than gunpowder and blood. Leave that to the jungles, to the mountains, the mosquitos and elephants. The man made ponds skimming with floating fish. The paths carved by solvents from the coke huts.

You can hear development, can tell when it draws closer. Its the same repetitive techno beat wherever you go. Cheap to make, inoffensive, but equally terrible. A lure to westerners, out for a good time with no taste, but lots of resources.

You wont hear the elephants until its too late.


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