Thursday, 15 November 2012

Trinist (Fragment)



Source: Wikimedia Commons
  
Trinist bathes in the sun.
They say this city
Is something to everyone;
Oh! That you might be
Such a city to me.

James walked down Filmell Street, the little thoroughfare on which his flat was located. The smell of rotting carrion and plants assailed his nose like myriad twisted ribbons of miasmic scent, causing him to gag and hold his nose to ward off the smell. The stench of rotting offal and vegetables that assailed his nose, a smell so strong that he could taste it all over his tongue and down the back of his throat, was created by a bustling market that operated the entire length of the street during the day, and one could hear men and women bellow and shriek the price of their wares the entire length of the street, each person trying to outdo the one beside them in an effort to move their goods. Almost any type of food that you could imagine was on sale there, from apples to lettuce to pig trotters and everything in between; however, only the destitutely poor came here to buy food: the food itself tended to remain on the stalls for several weeks, and any obviously rotting food was left to putrefy on the streets, with the resulting miasma from the rotting and rotted food matter earning Filmell Street the endearing name of Shit-Smell Street. Most of the vegetables, moreover, were sourced either from farms with deplorable agricultural standards, where pesticides were never used and febrile animals with clear cases of disease were still slaughtered and brought to market, or were ‘removed’ (to use the language of those who supplied the food) from dubious sources. The police, reluctant at the best of times to annoy the downtrodden citizenry of the city’s poorer quarters, and even more reluctant to brave the mephitic air of the area, tended to avoid the market and looked the other way as black market activities operated under the open sky, and when huge piles of rotting matter were left on the sides of the street.

The Man Who Sees (Fragment)

Source: Wikimedia Commons
I

No one in the crowd knows the colour of the sky. From his position at the top of the sky-scraper, the man watches the crowd which passes beneath his feet. The wind flutters his trench-coat around his legs, fluttering the frayed hem. If one wanted to talk to them of the sky, he thinks, every person in the crowd would have trouble even understanding the concept of the sky, never mind its colour. Every citizen of the world only wants to look at the ground on which he walks, in case he perceives something extraordinary up above; in case he sees something of a true beauty.