Friday, 31 December 2010

The empires of the clouds

Veering due to light

We are flying due south veering a bit to the right and through the castles in the sky, the monuments of aerated vaporification that would put architectures of renown to shame, the lights barge in flooding our sights to blindness from the left, ample proof that the sun does rise in the East.

Looking through the windows to the West these edifices of life forms we are yet to communicate with are as we look beyond them to some distant interstellar sister of our earth, their waste is rained upon us the sewers whilst we think our sewerage is the only exhaust for the unwanted on earth.

The empires war with each other and as they clash, we see lightning, new kingdoms are formed and rulers hailed with roars of adulation but we hear thunder.

Whether it is weather

Their Greco-Roman wrestling, the sport of gods – the stamping and rolling around on the ground are tornadoes with the maddest of our species chasing after them a thrill that might breed tragedy if a foot fell out of the circle.

The season of banquets rarely occur on land for there are no halls large enough for the feasts, in the East and the West, our Pacific which is rarely at peace and our Atlantic in which is buried that Utopian city, their tables are so laden with food and we see depressions.

The party starts small and it grows into a frenzy of wanton debauchery and reckless abandon, drink being guzzled faster than a whale fish could fill its mouth, we cannot call them to order, they are rotten neighbours that the council dare not threaten, at their mercy we give them names and one party called Katrina was probably the Golden Jubilee but our sewers and drainage failed for woefully.

Our place and places

We are junior partners on this landscape and yet our birds of fuel can cut through them we feeling turbulence and they probably grabbing on the clothes we just pulled off the clothes line in their gardens. Thankfully, their pegs are so inferior to ours but every once in while the story plays back about the maid that was in the garden hanging up the clothes and whose black bird pecked off her nose?

Clouds, a wonder, vapours we never fully appreciate and no, I do not have a window seat, I have been bettered, the lady in my three-seater aisle bought off the middle seat for space and that was not because she had girth, from all points of observation, I am probably bigger.

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