A trio of young men step around
piles of trash, plastic bags and they float in
the wind,
and a trio of young men
step around stones and piles
of trash; they dishevel; they behave
strangely. Walking as if their knees gave way
at a point in time
before they were born,
one of them holds a small boombox
in his hand. They listen to trance thumping
with tingling hi-hats and
grunge static. They
toy with the idea of death and
their eyes wander around the
playpen of medley rat scrounging.
The rats give way to a cacophony of
plague, vials of which are collected by the young men’s
mothers, who will use the disease to pray on spiders
gnawing
in the corners of the хрущёвка stairwells
because they are afraid of what might happen
should the webs become any larger.
The young men and the boombox are
encased in a vision of daylight spent
grieving in a constant cloud of
haze, the distant wastes a hell
of our own making.
Watch the young men stroll around.
They will do this for hours.
And when they finally stop they will stare
at each other.
There will be a sort of consciousness shared.
They will ask of each other the same question,
and none of them will have the answer:
Что происходит, когда мы умираем?
Definitively: nothing.