Friday, April 25, 2008

linda belle

newspaper intones her name, stabbed and robbed like a ghost caught clumsy in the fucked gears. i find myself drifting to the horror and unspeakable stupidity of this cinematic instance, flimsier in newsprint but somehow peculiarly real (like a bad dream of goodtime moments that made you wake up afraid). the K line is probably like many others, crafted of palmgrease and architects, set to hang carefully in the lumbering growth, delicate machinery swaying with the swinging movements of its kin, then frozen and stiff from disuse. Franz rides it like a scuttling insect down arteries of pocked cinder and garish paint schemes, a phantom train whipping scrambled wind into commuter faces - they stretch inches past the yellow edge searching the echoes for the culprit, then disappointed, leaning their weight back to the heels.

they say she was dead-ended by locked turnstiles then jumped by antlions in the dark. stabbed and robbed, or one word stabbedandrobbed, stabdenrobd, strobbed. newspaper abracadabra.
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linda belle, patron saint* of new yorker fuckups:
born by real-estate barons
and otherwise by the
reckless decisions of distracted imaginations.
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*papers don't say if she's dead