the village

night lode manifests in the suburb of crime. third world village. irrelevant time node.
grass patches, street corner hills, sand roads and orange earth, bulging and impossible for wheels, dirt ruined by hooves and
grunting animals. low cast oblong spaces built by long forgotten peoples, residential, possibly vacant, flies buzzing in heatstroke sun.

the following events are immediately staged, an occurrence, a module in operation >
coming from four directions, appearing like a swarm; simultaneous and rehearsed: the pigs, devil polis, deep blue, clueless.
constables alighting riot bus with cages fronting windscreens, old blood crusting under wheels sunk in sand. flanking zones. raid alert protocol.

they look at each other. a coordinated confusion. fumbling false alarm.
they look at each other, baton in hand, silver cuffs trembling
but they only see a fraction of walls, rising out of land.
afternoon node time. nein. nothing to target. failed intel.

an officer babbles, searching blank horizons
the criminals, no where, perhaps invisible,
officers of the precinct, misled, trigger fingers fidgeting.
they look at each other, loiter. unsure of how to proceed, how to discharge brutality.

one has a sense that night lode is at the core, moving among the species unseen, making observations, a gloating omnipresence, studying the pale faces of laughing stocks, silver badges trembling, powers in a vacuum. nothing left to do but vanish as quickly as they arrived.

irrelevant time node passes.

night lode as a humanoid form, carrying a black baton, night lode as a parent, scouring the haunts of its children. night lode banging the sides of oil drums used to burn money for the dead in hell. “arise, return.” natives, shirtless and taut, emerging from rusted hiding places. baton clanging against garbage trolleys, “be made flesh, be known to me, you who seek, I, who call you out of shadows, into the day of vu.” bent covers opening for air, local bandits, murderers, rising from trash, spider like, dark skinned, bodies painted with devilish signs and filthy scars, tense erotic bodies in loincloth, fishnets, para-cords, in perpetual hunger, clambering from blind places. they do not wait for voice or command from father/mother lode. they scatter, four directions, under sun, day lode sun hardly moving in the sky. here are the secret pawns of crime, cogs in a beast,from a beast, appeased, sent out, choosing to vanish, to hunt, hungering children, heading for the city of night.


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