Donald Quixote
Bio
Hopeless romantic,
adventurer in paradox;
so it goes
Stories (25/0)
Koko & The End Of History
Once, the carriage would have been painted in triumphal red, but what remains of its past vivacity has faded into a diluted postmodern pseudo-red. It must have been around when the twenty-first century was still a futurist’s dream. Windows streaked with dust. Cracked panes. And at the front, an oily coloured heavy metal engine, rusted a little, the colour of autumn leaves. If Trotsky had been destitute, this might have been the type of ragged locomotive he rode to the frontlines of utopia. Its body is overwhelmed by graffiti, a mosaic of symbols that I cannot decipher. A funereal grey face dominates the back end, eye sockets empty and blind, and not so much a mouth to speak of, but two lips painted so as to remain forever closed. I wonder if this is the complete motif of communism that I’ve been searching for all this time.
By Donald Quixote3 years ago in Wander
A Storm In A Coffee Cup
A Tuesday morning in February - ordinary, charmless, banal. My watch reads ten to nine. Only ten minutes until I’m due at my desk to begin another day of beleaguering grind. The wind whistles past the tramlines whirring overhead. Frigid and sharp this morning. Wind blows through channels in between the old warehouses and glass-clad office blocks. It tears into my face like butchers’ knives. My breath turns into a fine mist. My skin’s so cold it burns. Warm tears cascade from my dreary eyes and crystallise on my cheeks. Why must I endure the bleakness of these mornings? Wages. The shamelessness of it. The tyranny. We’re all governed by forces greatly vaster than the ones we anticipate.
By Donald Quixote3 years ago in Journal