'Show your belly' by Iryna Zakharova at City Surfer Office, Prague

Imagine yourself on a peripheral road. There's dust all around, sunblurrs on the ground The filthy heat smells of rubber and grease From the future you've entered the so-called Long Peace. The man sits outside a service station, surrounded by mechanical creations They're not machines even - more creatures With twisted metal features Which the sunbathing man could repair But he just sits and stares. And feels the sun on his belly. His nakedness is voluntary For he's rolled up his tshirt So he sits there and hurts. Himself a creation, gathered from dust This is his real life - but he must Produce for the powers that be His value is his productivity. And yet he sits and exerts his free will By being still. Showing his belly to the emptiness around. When he's disturbed, it's not by a sound It's less than a sound - a fragment Which begins and ends in one moment When a metal creation flashes by Too fast to name or identify. The buzz of a fly - a tyre's hiss - If silence had a sound it would be this.