Secretly
unlockable, they said, over a battle of mariokart and mushrooms, and even more
artistic than the pawnbrokers glasses - the spirals were not inhibited by the pressure-cooker
winds that sliced though the balcony rails of the Dragon café, which is where she once stood
with her motorcycle helmet that reflected the sleekness like nothing else
could. Mirrors and prisms, that’s all they were.
Each prism was a reflection of darkness that stood the test
of time, and each moment of time had not the faintest recollection of a comparison
time. Observing two separate objects sparked recollections that struck chords
of resonance; big fancy words to shut down idiots with gweedo shirts and raspy smiles.
Fuck castle walls, and
fuck barriers. Fuck the specters that leapt through the alleyways of yesterday’s
shadow, and fuck those deep areas of darkness. Fuck castle sieges and fuck the Toronto
maple leafs. Fuck inhibition and fuck the sarlacc pit.
Her motorcycle helmet shone from the peak of the Dragon café
through the spiral bars, right where the Grasshopper kicked the pawnbroker
right in the ass like a goddamn ninja. It was all part of the shifting collage.
A nose exploding with blood was the sign of a rough night, but so was a castle
decimated by a reckless siege of swing-sets and pomegranates, fueled by real-estate bacon-brokers.
