"When the mouse laughs at the cat, there's a hole nearby." - Nigerian Proverb
The mutes patrol the back pages like web spiders in the rough. They read. They register vibration. They eavesdrop from the tangle of a tormented rag.
Anonymity is the preferred condition.
Lockjaw. Trismus. The terminal backfiring of a yawn.
One attempts to be nice. From a distance.
Self-contained as boy scouts scavenging for kindling, they pepper the screen with cigarette burns. Peer in at the civilians setting the table for guests.
Quiet as mice, they fall back to their position in the woods. Dig in to observe. They have nothing to say.
Quiet as a mouse, they shoulder it like a sniper's rifle. Picking off sentences at will. Nailing the good shit with precision. A bayonet up close.
They are the assassins one wonders about when one is laid out on the sofa. The ninjas lurking in the outhouse. The old lady knitting a sweater for the accused in the dock.
2 comments:
The mutes patrol my place regularly, 500 to 600 a day.
I try to lure the ones who haven't joined the Young Team Pygmy Death Squads yet, the ones not fully addicted, with tidbits of tuneage not strictly banned by CT, then hit them with the purest Dub, the Essential sound.
Once or twice each transmission a message from a Brotherhood supporter trickles in.
We must not dismay, we are of MAY. We must persevere. We must nurture awareness of the pervasive evil of the Ministry for the Central Trasmitter & their ultimate quest for CONTROL.
The mutes percolate down into the deepest spiralling recesses of the web. Where sites such as mine recline. The condition, I think, is in part a response to the dismantling of community. As perpetrated by Ministry goons. Shady. We reside now in the red light paranoia of hit and run.
It is the era of the fibre optic driveby.
Of rubbernecking at the intersection between cable speed and attention span.
I do not dismay. I persist. Doggedly evangelising like a pit bull on the bleachers.
Post a Comment