The Belching Bars of Burlesque

The Belching Bars of Burlesque

Here, in the blank space of a status update there was nothing to express. Sheer emptiness of mind, indifference. Huge skyscrapers were falling asleep on their feet, heads drooping 'neath the snoring moon. It was at this time the Pixels came out, somewhat pixelated, picking their way through the trash-cans of throw-away politics, through the Tinkerbell fountains of neon light, through the belching bars of burlesque in the embolden bay of Risque. The night was counting up the stars in the spent tills of wasted time and the yellow cabs drove flawed, fictional characters into the wild outskirts of banished novellas. The Aliens of course, were there in the background, flashing their splashing lights, abducting the cash-machines of failed public policy. But here, in the blank space of status, where spelling mistakes conspire against all whispering pens, a yawn was heard in the corridor of power and lies were wired once again to twittering morning tabloids.