{"id":4018,"date":"2024-05-07T08:00:00","date_gmt":"2024-05-07T06:00:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/?p=4018"},"modified":"2024-05-07T17:54:55","modified_gmt":"2024-05-07T15:54:55","slug":"extinction-gardening-vol-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/2024\/05\/extinction-gardening-vol-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Extinction Gardening, Vol. 2"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Image<\/strong>s: \u00a9 Manuel Ferrazzo<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Author<\/strong>: Manuel Ferrazzo<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Last Flood<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n
<\/span>\"\"
\n

There is a house beside the sea,
Overlooking the shore. 
The waves come crashing on the sand,
Replacing each grain,
One by one. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Each day, the waves climb the hill a little higher. 
Soon enough, they will lick the walls of the house,
And finally, its wooden boards will soak up and rot,
Until the water comes pouring inside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The foundations of the house will collapse on themselves,
And the roof will come crashing down on our heads.
Yet, we will not move. 
Yet, we look the other way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because the other way, away from the waves,
The sun dances over the hills,
Promising treasures beyond our wildest dreams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So when the waves come,
We will not see them.
We will only sink with our house,
Helpless and confused.<\/p>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n

The Voice of Asphalt<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

The sky closes as dark-grey clouds
eat the blue of Heaven.
Thunder roars, and, as you look up,
a raindrop lands in your eye.
You blink; it\u2019s raining.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Falling in torrents,
the water soaks you,
and the asphalt too.
The warm fumes of
the wet streets
caress your nostrils,
the perfume of pollution
intoxicating you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A man runs to shelter in his house.
A stray dog walks under a wooden plank.
The homeless just let the rain run on their skins. 
The asphalt doesn\u2019t mind either.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Every droplet, the tears of a cold, drunk universe,
wash the dreams away to leave you naked
in the echoes of hope that inexplicably linger
in the cracks in the streets.
You blink; it\u2019s still raining. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The wind roars between the tall buildings,
whispering stories to the forgotten.
The city speaks. You must listen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I AM THE CITY.
MY HEART IS A FURNACE.
MY MOUTH A GUTTER.
YOU ARE INSIDE ME.
YOU RUN LIKE RATS INSIDE MY VEINS,
MY VEINS OF STREET LIGHTS AND POLLUTION.
I FEED YOU, YOU LEECH OFF OF ME.
I EAT YOU.
I SPIT YOU.
YET, I STILL LOVE YOU.
BECAUSE I LIVE INSIDE YOU TOO.
I LIVE IN EVERY PARCEL OF YOUR BODY.
YOU BREATHE ME,
YOU EAT ME,
YOU SPIT ME.
YET YOU STILL LOVE ME.\u00a0
WHEN YOU BECOME RUINS,
I BECOME RUIN.\u00a0
I NURTURE YOU UNTIL DEATH PLUCKS YOU.
AND WHEN, JUST AS THE RAIN
IS FALLING UPON YOU,
THE FIRES OF THE ATOM
WILL FALL UPON ME,
THEN, WE WILL BE TOGETHER.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those hidden between the cracks in the pavement
can hear the soul of the city.
But now, it is quiet.
Just the rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The cars hum and screech.
The gunshots sing.
The sky does not care.
The city takes the wounds without a word. 
Only those hidden can decipher its silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You hear the thunder.
You feel the cold wind caress you.
A few drops of water hang on your chin.
You blink; the rain has stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Boredom as Religion<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

the light on my face
is like a spooky story
but there\u2019s nobody to listen
or look<\/p>\n\n\n\n

it\u2019s the only light in the room
it hurts my eyes
it isn\u2019t the sun
yet it is<\/p>\n\n\n\n

endless threads
ariadne would get lost
i get lost too
but I feel in control<\/p>\n\n\n\n

images of double-speak snakes
they have the loudest voice
they have the whole world
they want to kill
they want to fuck<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to kill<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to fuck<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i feel miserable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a coward can\u2019t kill
he just orders it
we obey<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i obey<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the light on my face
it lights up an invisible world
a parasitic world
i close my eyes
time to sleep<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

death of the voice of asphalt<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

life was just a mushroom cloud away.
divine wind dusts the City.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

there is nothing left. 
no memories. no life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

ashes dance in the air,
rest upon the old houses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the ones that remain.
the ones that break down, still.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

no need for a graveyard
when the whole world is an urn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

the final ascension of the human spirit :: the face of god<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Rust settles in.
I should be in pain.
I should feel old.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I am old.
Older than death.
Older than god.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eternal life is ours.
We should feel like gods.
We should feel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A brain of wires,
a mind of data,
a heart of metal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We wear the face of god.
We war the way of nature.
We have become all.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We have become nothing.
A stream of data,
in a server slowly losing power.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our achievements have scarred the earth.
And now, living as ghosts,
we have finally found our master.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The face of god
is a cum-stained plastic mask.
The face of god
is a chrome-steel plate.
The face of god 
is as lively 
as a graveyard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

the earth weeps<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

The world has grown quiet
Miles away the earth weeps
Looking at the corpses of skyscrapers<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Voice of Asphalt is silent
Her monument is an urban tombstone
Brother sky is blue again
The sun is smiling
But there is no life to light again<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So the earth weeps
The ruins like fungi
On her body the mark
Of an abuser
A lover
A tenant
A friend
A nobody
A child
long gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Road to Healing :: An Epilogue<\/strong><\/h2>\n\n\n\n

When the godhead stops dreaming,
you will look at the world
and ask yourself:
why can\u2019t I be happy?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The road ahead is tumultuous.
A broken path on a broken land,
infected by disease,
slowly dying,
yet, still here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Do you wonder what is the place for you?
Where you belong?
You are here. Already here.
This is somewhere to be.
Under the rain, the silence and the fumes,
in the mists of your mind.
A face, in a crowd.
You\u2019re still here.
You\u2019re still alive.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

You will heal.
You will love.
You will live.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This world, this life,
was never for us,
but it doesn\u2019t mean it can\u2019t be.
One day, I will be back at your side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

While the long, slow apocalypse is upon us,
we can still greet it with a smile,
laugh at the face of trauma,
embrace one another
while we all dance into Armageddon.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Images: \u00a9 Manuel Ferrazzo Author: Manuel Ferrazzo The Last Flood The Voice of Asphalt The sky closes as dark-grey cloudseat the blue of Heaven.Thunder roars, and, as you look up,a raindrop lands in your eye.You blink; it\u2019s raining. Falling in torrents,the water soaks you,and the asphalt too.The warm fumes ofthe wet streetscaress your nostrils,the perfume […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1002514,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_seopress_robots_primary_cat":"","_seopress_titles_title":"","_seopress_titles_desc":"","_seopress_robots_index":"","footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[80],"tags":[36],"class_list":{"0":"post-4018","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-2024-spring","7":"tag-poetry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4018","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1002514"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4018"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4018\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5169,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4018\/revisions\/5169"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4018"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4018"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4018"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}