They writhed around in the shit and dust, flowers sprouting from their hair, petals filling their eyes. They were becoming a new species - the children of the sun. It was a time of change. It was a time of wonders.
It was rutting season for the initiated, all over the city boys clung to girls - biting their necks and humping furiously. They lost all control and took to the air like mayflies blotting out the sun and singing their twisted hosannas to the lord of hosts – the holiest of holios.
Numberfucked, the straights called out the National Guard to shoot these ungrateful weirdlings. The geometry of flight ruled the streets as the bullets flew. The corpses of the flower children were piled on street corners – food for the flies.
The odour of chaos, the stench of danger filled the streets. Police rumours acquired instantly the status of legend. The kids were drug addled criminals intent on overthrowing authority. Those eliminated in the violence reappeared as fictitious examples of murderous intent.
The guardsmen killed in the name freedom – convinced, as were the kids, that right was surely on their side. It never occurred to either that right and wrong were fictions of their own hearts. The killing went on, as it always has, the killers and the bereaved imbued it with a sanctity that was both touching and sickening.
The simulation of freedom had become a dance macabre. The scene entered into folklore as the burning of wooden ships, the slaughter of butterflies. The world soon settled into familiar patterns of banality and indifference. The story took on the dimensions of neither dream nor reality. In the end the whole issue became both invisible and obscene.