Wage War

I would see the city as a mutant among the wonders of the world. Its

chimmneys polluting the air. Its roots poisoning the earth. Its

tentacles setting one man against another and strangling them both in

their hopeless contest. I would map the cities' highways and tunnels and

bridges, its subways and canals, its neighbourhoods adorned by beautiful

homes filled with priceless objects, rare libraries, and fine rooms. Its

clever networks of pipes and cables and wires under the streets. Its

Police departments and communications stations. Its hospitals, churches,

and temples. Its administrative buildings crowded with overworked

computers, telephones, and servile clerks.

Then I would wage war against this city as if it were a living body. I

would welcome the night-sister of my skin, cousin of my shadow, and have

her shelter me and help me in my battle. I would lift the steel lids

from the ????? and ????? explosives to the ????? ????

and then I would run away and hide, waiting for the thunder which would

trap, in mute telephone lines, millions of unheard words. Which would

darken rooms full of white light and fearful people.

I would wait for the midnight storm which whips the streets and blurs

all shapes and I would hold my knife against the back of a doorman,

yawning in his gold braided uniform, and force him to lead me upstairs

where I would plunge my knifs into his body. I would visit the rich, and

the comfortable, and the un-aware, and their last screams would

suffocate in their ornate carpets, or tapestries and ???? ?????. Their

dead bodies pinned down by broken statues would be gazed upon by slashed

family portraits. Then I would run to the highways and speedways that

surge forward towards the city. I would have with me bags full of bent

nails to empty on the asphalt. I would wait for the dawn to see cars,

trucks, buses approaching at great speed and hear the bursting of their

tyres, the screech of their wheels, the thunder of their steel bodies

suddenly ???? ???? as they crash into each other, like wine glasses

pushed off a table. And in the morning I would go to sleep, smiling in

the face of the day, the brother of my enemy.