This is an urban routine:
Talking to pigeons
Singing with cars
Screaming ‘bout the milk
price
Talking to pigeons
Singing with cars
Screaming ‘bout the milk
price
The Underpass can be viewed as a translucent vessel which enlarges everything that surrounds it: the abundance of vehicle noise and bulky motorway pillars amplify the daily urban experience. While the most underpasses are straight and linear, this one is multidimensional: it is framed and cut by a number of crooked brick dividers. They lure the curious pedestrian with mysterious corners and angles, opening a new platform for a poetic thought. A simple journey from destination A to destination B becomes an adventurous voyage through a scattered energetic field.
It feels unnatural, however, to linger at such place. A liminal force constantly draws to one of the exits, while broken wine bottles and a lonely black balaclava creates a feeling of possible danger. When a body is placed into a scene like this, it becomes abnormally alert: every sound is curved, and every shadow — distorted. Suddenly, a dull passage converts to a phantasmagoric theatre: cars rush savagely in all possible directions; winds are whipped up into tiny vortexes; distant steps grow to a demonic march; howling sirens perforate eardrums; and a continuous crack in the road above opens the gates to uncertainty. In a way, the Underpass serves both as a physical, and a mental path which leads to unknown realms.
It feels unnatural, however, to linger at such place. A liminal force constantly draws to one of the exits, while broken wine bottles and a lonely black balaclava creates a feeling of possible danger. When a body is placed into a scene like this, it becomes abnormally alert: every sound is curved, and every shadow — distorted. Suddenly, a dull passage converts to a phantasmagoric theatre: cars rush savagely in all possible directions; winds are whipped up into tiny vortexes; distant steps grow to a demonic march; howling sirens perforate eardrums; and a continuous crack in the road above opens the gates to uncertainty. In a way, the Underpass serves both as a physical, and a mental path which leads to unknown realms.
I have witnessed a pigeon love triangle under a motorway. It happened as I was sitting alone in a corner and writing poetry. I felt very contemplative that day, and I took this as a sign which I still cannot translate.
A first pigeon I saw was a girl. It was searching for crumbs, but I guess all it could find was dust, gravel and broken glass.
A second pigeon descended soon, it was a boy. It was not interested in the fruitless hunting for crumbs. It wanted to get to know the first pigeon. The latter, however, was not so enthusiastic.
A third pigeon, also a boy, arrived to join the company. The first pigeon stayed indifferent, while the second pigeon started turning round its axis as it was very angry and anxious about the competition. The third pigeon tried to kiss the pigeon number one, but it flew away.
Pigeons number two and three looked at each other, and decided to drown their sorrow with the fruitless hunting for crumbs.
What I learned from this story is unknown. I wonder if the first pigeon found a fourth pigeon somewhere else, and whether I would have written a better poem if I was not distracted.
A first pigeon I saw was a girl. It was searching for crumbs, but I guess all it could find was dust, gravel and broken glass.
A second pigeon descended soon, it was a boy. It was not interested in the fruitless hunting for crumbs. It wanted to get to know the first pigeon. The latter, however, was not so enthusiastic.
A third pigeon, also a boy, arrived to join the company. The first pigeon stayed indifferent, while the second pigeon started turning round its axis as it was very angry and anxious about the competition. The third pigeon tried to kiss the pigeon number one, but it flew away.
Pigeons number two and three looked at each other, and decided to drown their sorrow with the fruitless hunting for crumbs.
What I learned from this story is unknown. I wonder if the first pigeon found a fourth pigeon somewhere else, and whether I would have written a better poem if I was not distracted.