(Voice over) Previously on Solar Disenchantment: a hamster or an acquaintance of Deija Thoris has parachuted from a bus and landed on a minigolf course, where he will attend a conference in a normal-size hotel. The unrelated first part is here.
The conference venue was virtual de luxo,
with non-removable coat hangers
and a sparkling mineral spa,
all a-bubble with sulphuretted hydrogen,
widely recommended as a curative
for common floral ailments.
After some negotiation, I chose
my bed sans breakfast in a nearby park,
where the night was redolent with fragrant frangipani.
But as fantasy would have it, I woke
to find they’d taken root inside my chest.
The mix of every sound, the correlate
of all our hasty thoughts, the everyday impossible
must be believed: truth and beauty,
their unreliable synonymity,
and marvels from the past on pogo sticks
must never be forgotten.
parallel sessions with motor heart people
Apps for breakfast, Leonardos for lunch;
on the clock work coiled spring,
seamless dreamless late by night;
a spiral rib cage drilling to the subterrain,
while squads of quadrupeds
are galloping through the desert
to median castellos, to be greeted
with a frivolous indifference.
posters with Deija, the apologetic martian
Slightly fantasy, slightly arrogance,
a regretful pretense that I am not,
that I don’t devour those who
crave a dream they never dreamt.
today’s special: a coffee and a coffee $3.141
Let me tell you, repetition is the secret
of the century. Did you notice?
I’m wearing a cockatoo-beak hat.
No doubt you’re wondering what’s beneath.
… mainly parrots, lost in a feathery wilderness
of mannequins and mannerisms.
In fleeting relevance, might I quote
the fatuous frangipani?
I’d prefer you place your order, the barista said,
but I mostly coughed up petals.
A carillon peal of bells announced the closing,
and Deija, mistress of the seaside ceremony,
read out the rules:
Humans will debate the inexorable rise of chaos,
all deities must ascend to stand in for the sun,
which is under someone’s pillow,
(she glared in my direction)
and anyone who’s made of mannequins
will be scattered on the ocean:
a tribute to Iemanjá, its sovereign.
I was the unlucky one.
Offerings of flowers for Iemanjá, Brazilian goddess of the waters, are cast onto the sea.
artwork dreamless (part above)