Number (N)ine

by Daniel Area Wakahisa

photography Peppe Tortora

realization Roxane Danset

Issue II


 
        Then there's this label who won't be showing this season nor the next, it's beat
it's dust scattered across an old record, a coat hanging on the cross—breathless,
        an empty skin unzipped, a shadow on the wall reminiscing the silent poet,
        a divine number
Then there's this feeling, a closed feeling, no longer weeping the mystical back alleys in Harajuku where broad stripes and bright stars conquered the tempered heart, 
forged in jewel steel engraved with the words: ??
        the demon blade
Then there's this hotel room in Alaska, no witnesses, no nothing,
        where isolation desolation exclamation
invoked the spirits of those folks whose strings resonate deep within
        the land of the free and the home of the brave,
the eternal scream, the nuclear weapon, rhythm and rhymes:
        rock and roll

Then there's this collection whose price was never tagged for it was higher than our digits,
our exchange rates—our cool, a precious moment, so loud it shattered bones and skulls,
speechless masks walking on their burying ground—the last moment,
January twenty second two thousand and (n)ine, the vanishing light
        reverence and fear
Then there's this feeling, a sad feeling, that keeps asking was it suicide or was it murder?
        (Ask my brain. I don't know)
the record stopped playing, FATHER the hipsters ran out of coins OR was it the jukebox
        who ran out of tunes, who couldn't count past (n)ine,
        who devoured Americana
until it's needle wore out, scratching the snow white facade of the nation 
        floating on overtime, overclocked, overpriced
Then there's this vehemence to conserve, to dry clean only and vacuum pack all the remnants,
dry freeze every stitch with cryogenic devotion, a cellar a wardrobe
where all numbers combine yet none equates to the absolute value of Takahiro Miyashita, ????
         Taka the oyster, the silent poet,
         ask my brain

Then there's this thirst, a wind blowing from the desert, dry and dusty eyes shut glooming 
        wide-open uneasy progressive philosophy resonating in the minds and memories of all,
        what the future will hold,
The Redisun, Time Migration, Standards, The Modern Age, Nowhere Man, Touch Me I'm Sick—A New Morning, Dream Baby Dream, Give Peace a Chance, Night Crawler, The High Streets, Axel Rose, Noir, About A Boy, Love God Murder, Birds, My Own Private Portland, The Lonesome Heroes,
A Closed Feeling
        The ninth sense disbanded
Then there's this letter, a sad letter, Dear friends and supporters, 
where dear friends and supporters are given the announcement—the adjournment
        or is it punishment (You shall not make for yourself an idol)
the eighteenth show a closed interval thank you to all but keep looking, keep shopping,
        keep up with appearances
It's past (n)ine and I don't know what to wear
It's past (n)ine and the beat is dead, circumscribed to collectors—we are all collectors now, collecting
       an infinite number of fragments in time, of time, running out of time,
playing the old Beatles song that keeps spinning past the last groove,
        perpetually

Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine
Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine
Number nine, number nine, number nine, number nine
Number nine, number nine, number...

 

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