CARIBOU

DUMB KID and her dumb-shit questions.

A pair of shiny round podiums like a rapist’s scrotum squeezing together a giant cocked tower, spitting out the fat foreign women who’d been in it since the crack of dawn to spray it with a stench like aciclovir to keep the whole thing stiff for the suits come marching in.

Like I’ve got time to think like that.

The doors jitter, (praying to go out of order or playful?), no one cares, they’re never going to close in on anyone going through, like any alternate reality these sliders could promise could ever be anything but the exact same journey, only to a higher floor in a silkier tie.

What’s she going to ask next? What’s my favourite colour?

Builders cling to the side, dangling like lice, dirty, different, full of face, nothing like the ones inside, made of stone, mirror to nothing but each other’s shadows. Maybe the Hindu boy, young but old, too old to remember his dreams of moksha, burning in the river, never to return anywhere in this godforsaken place ever again.

Fuck, I don’t know. Something beautiful, I guess.

There’s always a new kid, sees this place like it’s the Maha fucking bodhi, making out he’s a bhikkhu governed by patimokkha instead of a Shih Tzu following the orders of a fat nobody who wants to have his centre in the middle. Give him a few days and he’ll be like the rest of the kids, wishing away 432000 seconds until it’s time to dance on ground covered in a white as dirty as snow.

Not made up, like a unicorn or some shit. Something real.

It’s sharp and it bites. How do the condemned carry one around without hurting themselves? Perhaps it will open nothing deadlier than an envelope, but for a few seconds today, in the keratitis-infected eye of the mind, it will dance across his fat throat, releasing him, I, Vedavati immolating herself to be free of Ravana, he, like Buddha emerging from a slit in his mother’s side.

Anything but a rat, kid. Anything but a rat.

By Shihab S Joi
Hat-doff:
Charles Stepney/ Rick Giles/ Pixies