suitep: Central Pyongyang, North Korea at dusk. A rare glimpse inside North Korea.
There is a voice radiating from the heart of the city: the voice is heard as a whisper on the wind passing through the raiders, traders and caravans. It is a voice demanding lamentation and weeping, the voice is weeping for the loss of the children: the voice refuses to be comforted because the children are no more. And then this happened, like a ripple of concentric rings extending out beyond the source of sadness, the greatest of the men rose up in answer: We will purge our voice of weeping, and our eyes from tears; we will never cease from seeking our indebted reward. The lost ones are all worth redeeming, from the enemy—they will return… there is hope for our future, each wise and noble man said, in turn. Both baffled by his outburst, and believing himself to be the only screaming one. In silence an image traces itself from a glint of sand on the breeze reaching into the darkest shadow of his mind to etch with the flash of flint a silent film: starving, broken children cracking through the gates of time as their will finds their way: home.
“The city appears quick, rising like an old fashioned sunrise—through a cleft in the hill. Emerald, cobalt and sea foam gleams from where tall glasses of steel gilt reflections gather and release the absinthe cocktail of celestial as well as artificial light.”
- Img:daydreamsonvinyl
…
When the prints came out I looked pale. A dancing corpse upon a black velvet couch. My body and eyes definite. Solid. The rest of me whisped around, cloud-like. My lips, a pigmented blur of flesh tones and shadow—perhaps I should have taken the money and stood still until command… as the city appears quick, rising-classic as a sunrise through a cleft in the hill. Emerald, cobalt and sea-foam gleams from tall glasses of steel gilt reflections gathered and releasing an absinthine cocktail of celestial and artificial lights. Hard-wrought salve drenching black blood-shot eagle’s eyes. I adjust slings and packs of cloth protection from deserts tempest, feeling a tug of gravity at breast, and for the first time in days: I smile…
…
The sea was once a gem of many facets. A bed of diamonds so deep, the light of the steady fired sun embedded himself in the ocean’s heart, radiating out greens white frothed and water colored blues. The sun lit the seas, warmed the winds, set our time. The sun was credited with all sources of creation; but when something shines this bright my son, never forget to look inside. See that ball of fire—in need of help to be truly productive. All things need a counterpart. The sun shines bright throughout the stretch of day, setting his children to rest—and that is when I come, grace and skulk, across the starred black veil casting long soft outlines of pale haloed light across the landscape of darkness upon dark matter. I hear shepherds mock my flux in shape, my darker heart in darkness; as I kiss your temples and they fail to realize my appearance is merely the byproduct of them—standing between myself and my counter.
I do not wane and fold.
I am always full, soft and perfectly round; equally lifeless as that ball of flame they blindly sing praise. At Last Night I look into the smooth, stilled, single facet of a frozen pane of sea and all I see is the fired deflection of that raging star upon my soft, temperate, round chalken ash. I pull my small gravity from the land that I love, hearing it spin a little quicker in celebration of my departure. I hear the tall towering peaks of the ocean reaching for my pull—and so, let them part. Some coming into me as I let all the rest of it go.
The Earth lusted for the sun, and won…
