SPRINGTIME

It is a very nice spring day – serene, bright and dead, rotting underneath its bonnet of multi-coloured vegetation and slanting roofs.

The walls are suffering from jaundice, the sky is blue – the hue of an asphyxiated person's lips. How green the foliage of the trees is –green as vomit and diarrhoea, green as jealousy.

Cunningly, the flowers endeavour to hide the stench of putrefaction, the foul foetor of our sins; they succeed. The birds do their best to out-twitter the sobs and moans of the unheard; they succeed. What are seven sins against five senses?

Pollen – an enchanting funeral blanket, touched with cold gold.

Destructive desires, poisonous pleasures, lewd lust all around, everywhere; bawdy fucking, achieving lethal orgasm, encouraging the rebirth of hurt, a pathetic insistence on decadence.

Spring, devil in disguise! The winds blow vague sickly perfumes towards my nostrils.

Galloping feet of four steeds encroach upon my ears. Four horrors are seated aloft, grinning, laughing, laughing, guffawing.

Shrouded in spring, they wreak havoc upon their creators. For a moment, they cast aside their shroud, those four dread riders; then they hide themselves, leaving traces of their pestilence before them and behind them.

It is a bright spring day, glorious, shining and dead.