travel gypos

the travel log, like all genres, is underdeveloped, encapsulated by its own traditions which incarcerate the family members, straightjacket their identities, and erect border walls between sensations, threatening the wildlife of thought with extinction

for this exercise – which we transiently call travel gypos or typos hypos – a juntetta of sadoos gathered loosely in chār qala to envision recounting of adventures in which the movements in exteriority and interiority are confused, as they always truly are but here, in travel hypos typos, we take this truly are and make it not the under but outerwear of our explorings

our primary orientation for this is the dial log, for all traveling is dial log and all dial log traveling (they both are deconstructed forests) and one who knows how to converse well has already crisscrossed the entire world

backpacking on the jalalabad asmar road

the roads are dusty and someone has ransacked our mandibles and our kindersurprises are strewn across the transport and the backseat’s stains look like rorschach tests she says the khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf airport is not busy but when is our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol?

i am higher than a wildfire hazard and cuming like kafir kush but something not i manages to assemble a response from the smelly detrita of my broken brain why isn’t anybody looking for our departure time? we don’t want to miss this plane. the next one to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol might not be for six hours even tomorrow and where would we stay and what are our names?

but my fellow inhabitants are strung like xmas lights across a tree of interiority and the blinking from their souls tucked behind the cloacal curtain flies me to a worrisome refuge. she says our gillopy is the mantra of our salvation and our little plastic toys nazars of exhausted tomorrows. only the foreknowledge of our departure is the unwrapped gift stuck in consciousness’s unswept chimney

i rub some precum from a vat marked rodenticide on my lips as an antinganting. we are sad for the racing ducks in the little yellow pointy caps are not our friends but someone must have the tickets and why is no one helping and i can see us in the choir of the sun in manogay collecting firewood and crossing the border on staccato backs of melancholic rains

the landscape, violently brown and mutely chronological, looks at us as if we are toxic marshmallows taking selfies on a cosmic refrangibility. the hills are marred with lipstick and no one sings the wretched tunes

oh lollipops and chickenpox. we shall never get to khwaja karzai rawash hamid ashraf and our plane shall leave and shall arrive at lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol and the ghats shall die without us, they shall fall like lesser adjutants, what shall we do?

but i’m stockpiling dried scataberries on a ledge of flowers for our defense against the night and she weeps a little like an anthrophobe or an amygdala on the runs drinking polyvinylpyrrolidone. we were almost there and now we are forever on these broken destinations and the planes are grazing like noxious buttercups and the airport talks to itself in reuptake selective monotones and our flight to lal shastri babatpur bahadur radesh radish lol is impatient like a siege

coming soon

more zeroes

more logs, more gyps & gypos