With as much starch in wardrobes as on plates,
the stiff neck comes with a stiff skirt.
Watch her swish by.
Don’t take it personally if she doesn’t see you,
the tip of her nose is in the way.
The Fashion Capital
The Fascist Capital
The Racist Capital
The Race-to-the-Top Capital
I can’t be arsed with the capital.
The water comes out of a tap.
The sand is dust on brick.
The only mountains are the piles of dog shit
they are too good to pick up.
Watch her swish right into
Dino’s digested dinner.
Sussurat is a city of dust and air. Varying ratios of each make up the walls of the homes and the grounds to be roamed. The inhabitants float through life, with an evolved sense of delicacy and prudence. Trees aren’t blown in the wind — they whittle away until more dust settles. Pages of books are turned with whispers and stories are written with the tickle of plume on parchment. Life goes by in a dreamy drift until the day when the Outsiders arrive. With one clearing of their raspy throats, the city’s foundations crumble. Upon finding a shapeless mass of air and dust, they leave, convinced that there was nothing there to begin with.
Inspired by Italo Calvino’s Le città invisibili – my new favourite book.