The reprisals come as intent to smother the volunteer communitarians and orators in the interim, when all smoulders and aches and begins to regenerate. Effigies of dogs around necks, unsigned summons sported at the hip a heraldry of pamphlets. In flak and light shoes they bust the paper doors of old Asakusa and its secret slots the self-governed Fuchū the small-time smugglers of Azabu suspend the summoned by the ankles, poison and drown them in the wells from which they’re purported to have come, until hair stops. Crimes in the interim between presentations, between the film about the Bibliotheque Nationale and the film about the lynched union official drawn out of the factory and into the field. The claypits had him like a club to the head. Summoned by hand in lieu of affidavit, frontispiece of the library hoists the child to the front balustrade of the rostrum and harries till the mouth clams shut, meaning closes into absence ipso facto. The smugglers of Ikebukuro drowned in shreds of cycle race bets, foil to the smartly dressed bookshelves of the modern history of village Hokkaido. Once again, until hair smells of nothing, hangs like a willow in the dead of night. Tossed from the factory into the field. In the interim they swan through the cracks and sluices and quiet places of the noisome town, friends fettered to their throats, friends at hips and friends at knees, encircled by hordes of man’s best friend in attack formation – no place to them without stink – formed until all progeny of the well are thrown out by hand and shibboleth along with their languages and periodicals, tossed back to the field and the claypits, no word of the purge there but a gargle of the autolytic slough.
The Reprisals after the Great Earthquake of Tokyo
By Corey Wakeling | 1 February 2013