Motorway City - Zones

As we
descend

down into the city, which is under the level of the sea, the moon whirls strangely behind our backs
our shadows are taller than our words now:

it was said that the name of the city was Utopia: the word whistled sibilant in the lips of the clairvoyant, the clairvoyant of the marginated.

We the outlaw needed to find a city of refuge, like the cities of refuge of the ancient Israel, because the night's short here... and as our descent goes ahead and [down]
and as so turns up the Sun [around]
and as so its respective day [it's found]
here we are at the gates of Motorway city: Utopia.

The atmosphere of the liquefied dome it's argentine, the streets resemble the old streets of Canaan, due to the excessively dry air, which keeps the land all cracked and the yellow dust covering irremissibly the miserable and poorly designed sidewalks:

400 metres ahead there is a huge reservoir for metallic waste and broken cars, which lie one over another in a chaotic pile of twisted steel.



At this stage I notice that the Sun is not one but two, twin Suns shining in the white sky of the daay; their burning luminosity almost doesn't allow to see:
everybody has to wear bleack spectacles that are not enough to diminish the impossible brightness of this daay horrid.

On an unexpected stage, as ample as ruinous, and that is settled exactly behind the metals' cumulation, 5 warriorbards jump over its tatty wooden floor to entertain a while the desperadoes from the 30 different gens or clanns

Utopia City is populated by vile clanns:
the 5 sonic warriors who call themselves indistinctly The Queens of Deliria.

They play their strange instruments while their legs get enlarged like octopuses under two Suns that increase their illumination
it's a symphonia from the end of the world

 

stolen cans of beer are thrown empty at the stage like a blinding metallic rain:
someone recites a pamphlet through a silvery megaphone, a whistle sounds, shattering the daay in 1.008 pieces: this noise is unbearable.

And the pamphlet reads:

"The art is free, the art is liberation: no panic. 
This is the sonic attack of our social alliance; beyond the gates of the city everything's decadence for us to pirate it: our art is our life itself; reflex and essence, and it's ours and it's ourselves, to fake it not.
They tried to silence us, and although they outnumber us, we were stronger and could soorvive to keep our essence alive. We don't need those hypocritical-law anymore in our perfect communist society, and they are ours for the taking now, our prey; because they don't compute anymore: we hacked their system, right? Which collapsed into a cone of shadows... because their repugnant throne it's getting surrounded by more and more tenebres every day.
Our art is us, freedom and liberation for the mind; because the art it's nada."

The echo of these last vocables floats adrift in a wind that comes from the Sun[s], god[s] of the blackness; the echo of these last vocables runs through the back brain.

This is our descent into Motorway city, the dome that cannot be named, and as the vertigo of the Suns swirls hysterically in the orange software of the sky, flying toward their obscure tomb, the night, Nyx.
We keep going on, into the entrails of Motorway city/ Utopia, toward its darkest corners, that are ours now, that are us now.

Maybe one day, the utopia of Utopia will reach the whole society: a dangerous dream to think about, a total madness out of control, a subversion of the social status quo as Jesus formulated it, the absolute violence into a total war, a war of classes, a place where everything will be fair, where everything will die.

Return.

Yeah, that, an ynverted world, everything ynverted.

That day is coming, coming, slowly, slower, coming coming... unavoidable, like a destiny of iron

as our descent into the prohibited city gets dangerously profound, toward its darkest zones.