A spark, pulse…energy, diffusion, evolution, form, sound, emotion, soul. Eyes…watching, they always do, waiting, unblinking. Darkness, warmth, muted echoes, mutated meaning, waves of id, oblivion erosion, unhatched, nestling, DNA lock, cosmogenic key, fiery logos, epochal odyssey.
Intuition, pointing finger – annunciation, denunciation, accusation – parochial nod or shrug, purple vestments hang from the cross on Golgotha, a restless breeze disperses the Chapter, crows brandish sceptres, Mary is blind, centurions play dice with her eyes, the Spear of Destiny props open a door to a brothel, the disciples pretend to be masturbating beggars.
Eden is barren, its fertility snatched & hidden in mankind’s loins, flaming sword, scorched earth policy, paradise lost.
Starfish hand, blessing imparted, black/blue snapshot – He can see you yet He has no eyes. Magi gather & strap on explosives, astral portents, the anti-Messiah, nuclear (event-) horizon, Black Sun, the Hiroshima Angel flutters her wings, it is only a test, five atolls are vaporized; an octopus becomes computer literate & is employed by a PR firm, assignments are multitasked, hacking secure infrastructure & uploading viruses.
The entire population of New Zealand evolve into giants; they invade Australia, conquering it in 13 days. The U.N. begin the peace process, the giants are eating Aussies! Twenty unanswered letters later, the U.N. lose patience, internal memo to the USA: Do what you want! Two aircraft carriers are dispatched. The octopus reprograms the weapon schematics and half of Europe undergoes a ballistic missile strike. The UK deploys its Armageddon weapon & fires the Isle of Wight at the carriers, direct hit. Australia announces a state of national emergency as both Neighbours & Home and Away go off air in the same week – the Kiwi giants flattened both sets, they always hated cheap imports.
Japan simply disappeared. Instead of making cars/computers/Tamagotchis/ninjas/sushi, the whole island had been converted into a huge submarine manned (sic) by an army of robots; the surrounding islands launched into the sky, mechanical hybrid satellite fighters, they shoot down Lear jets for fun.
Hurricanes rip through South America, engulfing it in a cocaine blizzard. The entire continent was high. An outburst of low quality rap records follow, Poncho Honcho was the best of the worst until he thought he was an Inca King & jumped off the Sun Pyramid. Revolutionaries abound, sporting Che moustaches as firing squads salsa through villages…anyone caught smoking a cigar is shot for being a capitalist pig even though a sex tourist could buy a child prostitute for less.
Nothing really changes in Africa, the usual genocides perpetuated by gold-toothed megalomaniacs funded by Western aid; feed the world with bullets, gleaming cylindrical strikes, children’s bodies jerk like bloodied puppets coughing up dusty diamonds.
In Israel, two commandos are playing computer battleships, it is the battalion final, in the excitement, the wrong button is pressed. Nuclear warheads perform Swan Lake in the heavens before beginning their descent. A mad scramble to press buttons, counter strikes, missiles away! The electrical overload plunges the Middle East into darkness. People of different creeds & races watch the sky – so many comets – it must be a sign! Who has chosen the correct Saviour? The answer will be revealed after Saturday’s Thunderball draw.
The child ponders, it can sense the truth, voracious veracity. So called life teeters on intemperate quicksand, there is no predestination so abnegation of responsibility is not an acceptable excuse, it is blasphemy. Façades, corridors, mirrors, masks – this is no Carnival attraction – somewhere the jester still stalks the maze, the bells are silent but the rust is being shaken loose, baneful darksome orbs of ruination peer from the folds of souls. The jester licks his lips slowly & lasciviously.
Conception – an ongoing process; misconception – a daily process. Words tumble out everywhere, they hide in phones, blink on impassive monitors, jump off tongues like Olympic divers. Words = sword & how they can cut; they scratch glass more sharply than a pawned diamond, wound fragile flesh, pierce hearts of love (& lust if necessary). The child will stab with words, it will smother & suffocate with weighty paragraphs, it will deceive with a smile of innocence blanched in blood, it will walk over corpses, moribund offerings; it will spit in the eye of righteousness, painful burning, jellied pain, contaminated tears. Tombstones are thrown with careless abandon; fall into a grave, customize it for your comfort, you will be there for a while; carve symbols, you can make up what you want, inscribed words are worthless, words cannot capture the essence of soul.
Energy pulses disturb the idyll, they rake through the brain like scuttling jagged glass cockroaches, this causes anger. Blue/back photo montages, no one notices the foetus forming letters, it is an unknown word, a credo, a blast of the divine, its utterance will convert reality constantly, the world will be crammed full of schizophrenics arguing inside mirrors, civilization will crumble, regress. Darwin will ride a pure blood unicorn that will vomit acid into our faces & as we melt, the rider will empty his Uzi into the sky, puncturing clouds & the halos of angels.
And what of dreams? Transient fleeting dimensional wish-lust! Collect them in a bottle, add some vodka & throw it into the ocean. A whale ingests it, the bottle flies through & strikes Jonah on the head, cursing he drinks from it, gets wasted & starts breakdancing. The whale has indigestion and burps Jonah who is still clutching the bottle into the stratosphere. Jonah lands in an Icelandic geyser, his sins are cleansed, he is transformed & emerges as a stock market broker. The bottle will drift into the heart of darkness & be consumed with relish by a demon.
Pressurized walls disturb, how can it sleep? Bright artificial light blinds, physical pain, everything seems so unnecessarily loud & exaggerated…is this mortality?
A veil of darkness, silence engulfs & binds. People are afraid to speak, their tongues become lazy & wallow like indolent slugs; they watch but do not see, their eyes form a protective membrane, it is called ignorance. The streets are lonely causeways, abandoned cars are corroded with indifference, rust glitters malevolently, feasting on chrome. Lampposts unlustre, a dull glow throws a reluctant pall, curtains twitch as people try to discern the strange noise that prevents them from sleeping. It is probably their conscience. Inertia grips as figures immolate themselves with divans, quilts, wallpaper etc… The taciturn TV records it all as starched scientists analyse the data. Humans are losing the intellect to live – incessant years of gorging on puerile images & bullshit, Z-listers raised to glossy sainthoods – so many false idols to cast down. Death of a dream?
Blocks of misconception, EVERYTHING must have a name, to identify & be identified, the label gun sends out a constant ticker-tape, a mundane history report, D+. What an error is the absolute, what a joke. It keeps the human race busy.
Abstractionism. Polish the sharp edges until they are dulled, a coin has no sides, throw Newton’s apple in someone’s face, drop a radio in Einstein’s bath for an alternative ‘eureka’, load up the hadron collider with an atomic bomb, sift through the ashes of Nagasaki to see if you can find contrition…or simply go to the zoo & stare at the sad faces…or do I mean the rush hour on the London Tube?
The UK space program is in full flow. Okay, we have homeless people but let’s be honest, who gives a shit about some junked-up alcoholic dropout festering on the pavement…Excuse me, sir? Spare any change?…whining insinuating voices from the void…save the seals & send clubbers to clean up the streets in Europe, pay per view, cash bonus, Homeless Hunt? Yes, the judicial/prison/legal system is not good enough, crime stats are manipulated, society is crumbling from its very foundations but the greedy selfish politicians are safe in their ivory towers, extorting money from tax payers to fill their corrupted egotistical craws, the age of decency died in the 60s. The NHS is bankrupt in many senses, it is like the Titanic after it hit the iceberg except no ships are coming to help the survivors, not even sharks can be bothered to circle. Freedom of speech is found at the end of a police baton.
Constantly churning out inept lies, breathtaking incompetence, failed projects, glossy mandarins…welcome to the Labour Government. If you read the party manifesto, you will notice crossed out words…accountability, honour, decency, you get the gist. I digress, back to the space program. After investing more than one billion pounds (sterling), it is confirmed that the UK has managed to send over 800,000 old microwaves/fridges/dishwashers/TVs etc…into space. This was seen as a viable alternative to sending our waste to China because A: It is too expensive to ship it B: The new landfills seem to already be full…of dead dissidents.
Unofficially, white goods are being dropped in the English Channel so in 50 years time you will be able to walk across it, praise the Lord. Apparently, the beauty of Saturn’s rings are enhanced by Smeg products caught in the gravitational pull. The Man on the Moon, widely assumed to be a rogue CIA agent, is building a big fuck off battle robot from all the abandoned goods, intel suggests that Commies live on Mars.
A revolution is required to cleanse the politic but alas the country is flooded with benefit addicts, too used to smoking/drinking their giros, spewing out babies who will repeat the cycle by the time they are 12 years old. Vote? You would be lucky if they read anything else than the TV guide to find out what was going to happen in the soap operas. The irony being that is what they aspire to be as it reflects their own lives. How tiresome.
A shroud of despair, untongued words, blinking letters on an artificial tableau. Realities flit – misplaced hopes & dreams, inbred corruption, shifting alliances. What is power? Bullets will suffice, blood is always the answer for an imbalanced hierarchy. In a dank musty cellar, a figure swathed in dirty linen, racked with doubt, wounds leaking incarnadine, is the Messiah in hiding? Could it be the price for the first Ascension was too high? Could it be that we are not worth saving? Carve a skull from hot wax & throw it onto some martyr just itching for a noble death, capture the last breath. Followers gather…the unwashed & the unemployed, mobile homes flood the streets of Brighton. The police think there is an illegal rave & fondle their truncheons lovingly…nothing better than bashing pacifists…probably doped up to their dreadlocks, blasted hippies should have been killed off in the 60s, or at least dropped on the Viet Cong. Personally, I would have lobotomized them, cut their hair then slicked it back, popped them into a cheap suit & given them an FBI badge. Crowns of thorns made from barbed wire are made by local artisans (vagrants from the beach), a tight fit, really digging into the flesh, suddenly everyone is called David Icke & wearing brightly coloured shell-suits dancing as if they were auditioning for a SL2 video…it’s the ultimate ragga tip.
The stock market crashes into a bus stop, all the buses in London are cancelled. Is it snowing? No, currency is worthless, inflation is rather deflating. On a street corner, a financial consultant is trying to sell ISAs, invest in one and get a free illegal immigrant. Pick up a phone to call a helpline…oh, hang on, what number do I dial for the end of the world? Fuck me! It’s engaged. The phone melts in my hand but I can hear distorted voices escaping from it. Allegedly, the lottery is a fix, the ‘winners’ get a few thousand quid, lie their bollocks off & tickets carry on being bought. Some of the funds are dispersed to worthwhile charities like ‘Therapy with Raccoons’ or ‘How to Grow a Beard After a Sex Change’. Nothing in life is free, not even death, after all, you still have to pay for a coffin/cremation. Lucky number or your number is up…bang! God’s invisible bullet. Fuck that! My soul has body armour, I’ll take the hits and stride forth like a gilded Moses, without the beard & arthritis (I will be wearing an Armani suit, dirty robes are so Old Testament). I will bathe in the Ark of the Covenant, I will energize like a glowing angel fashioned by the Sword of Damascus.
The seer eats clocks, trying to halt time, not realizing it does not exist; strangely a ticking sound can be heard within him, nothing to do with clocks, he accidentally swallowed a bomb. Tick tock, tick tock, the countdown has begun, not to be confused with the TV show on C4 (non-explosive type).
Addiction…Mogodon cowboys stroll lethargically, even their spurs are lackadaisical as they saddle up tiny ceramic horses in a playground. Take another drag, nicotine infusion, it would be quicker if they drank a pint of toxic waste & more entertaining for the pay per view customers. Clinics were set up for distressed Tamagotchi suffering from VD (Valentine Deficiency), abandoned on subways & in alleys, sexually molested by strangers, fed to hungry basilisk lizards breeding in sewers. Twilight hours, insouciant neon of petrol stations, ghosts buy scratch cards out of habit, winnings are uncollected, unconnected souls, bowls begging alms, palms stained with stigmata, dig & barter, charter a ride, pride was the cause of the Fall? Nope, it was not even about freedom of choice, God could not keep His own house in order, no serpent, no sin.
Sanctuary is a door in the mind, often it is closed; strict entry policy, you have to leave your mask outside. Casting down masks is a joy but what happens when you run out…who are you? Millions of bolted doors, locks rusty with neglect, no one wants to face the stranger that is the ‘self’, rejection is implicit. Take a photo of your reflection, witness the disdain, that’s not me says the reflection! Are we the reflections? I tried dimensional travel once, I thought a mirror was a gateway to another land, in a sense it was, I ended up in A & E…what a Wonderland! Junkies with syringes stuck in their decaying skin, too wasted to take them out, bloodied warriors from Battlefield Weatherspoons, fighting over some skank so rank with VD that a group of medical students detail her every move…is it the Missing Link? Got pregnant on an ice-skating rink, teenage pride-ride. The only thing scientists are missing is how fucking stupid mankind is! Regressed breeding will reach the DNA gap before archaeologists sifting through dirt next to the M25 find anything more valuable than a 20 pence coin without a date on it.
People are tired & weary, their souls are heavy, people are dying in wheelie bins…or are the bins robots with wheels created by Fascist councils to punish the unwary who overfill? Oi, ‘Arry, this bin is right facking heavy!! Leave it, son, you may pull a muscle in your fat arse! When it gets ripe, they will pop it dawn the ol’ municipal! In the end, the police took it away as evidence. You have to admire the housekeeping skills of a murderer that puts the body in a wheelie bin (not the recycling one, mind you!); no chance of it reducing the value of the house from a hygienic p.o.v. or the sales spiel…Wasn’t someone found murdered in this house? (subtext: Knock 10k of the price you smarmy estate agency fucker!) Actually, no, a body was found in a bin on the pavement and as you see from the title deeds the tarmac belongs to the council. (subtext: This was not a gangland killing, it was just a marriage that went on for too long, bit like this viewing!) Wheelie bins are like impotent Daleks and not as shiny.
Water slides & roller-coasters…screams…waking dreams! An incandescent white light burns through the retina & into the back of the skull – ouch! Smack that! Shed a tear or two! As far as first appearances go, it’s a bit messy. Ah, but endless photo shoots beckon! Keep it natural! Be yourself! Pretend the camera is not there! Get the fuck out of my face, Serge! There is more chatter than a fleet of taxi drivers. Everyone has an opinion but strangely doesn’t. Blah blah blah! Slurping cups of tea, digestive bikkies, congratulations all round.
No one knew where the centre of the universe was or even if it existed? They dug up Galileo & Copernicus, cloned their DNA in the hope of finding the answer; the clones started their own clothing range. Not much point asking a politician as they lie whether they know something or not. Some write to the Pope, the replies are censured by the Vatican but some get through the holy net, smuggled out in the pants of the Swiss Guards who are fed up with being denied the right for a uniform makeover overseen by Vivienne Westwood. Inexplicably, the Pope has been signing letters with the wax imprint of a swastika. Even the Roman Catholics are upset by this…it is the only thing missing from the Pope’s travel bag in the Vatican’ s shop…Pope soap on a noose rope, a cut throat razor and a flannel with the image of a burning heretic. It is easy to make a mistake, just ask Adam & Eve. One quick shag and mankind’s destiny is to become dust so think about that when you are emptying your hoover!
And so it begins…perception, understanding…a voracious sponge sucking the life from your very bones. The folds of reality start to unfurl at the outer limits, antimatter does matter, a physics orgy of photons, mesons, bisons, protons, electrons…my thick-rimmed glasses are steaming up, quarking hell! A space shuttle falls from the sky…the superpowers Facebook each other, is it one of yours? Belgium pretends it is theirs but are openly derided by the former USSR states who tell them to stick to making chocolate. The world’s media is focused on the pod. It opens and there is a murmur of discontent as Richard Branson steps out. Journalists who have spent their entire year’s expenses over the last few days snap and beat him to death with their Blackberrys. No one is more surprised by this than Richard Branson who was actually at home having a beard face-off with Noel Edmonds & ZZ Top. Despite shouting, “Bloody bollocks!” in his jaunty Virgin style, he is unnerved and changes his name by deed poll to Ricardo B, shaves his hair & beard and supports Moby on tour as a bongo player.
At first there is no trial. However, the pathologist makes the mind-blowing discovery that the slain Branson was in fact from the future. There was much hand-wringing about the tragedy and how everyone must learn from their mistakes (a year later Alan Sugar was shot by firing squad). Noel Edmonds reads a moving eulogy and wore a special jumper that had Branson’s face glittering from it. Unfortunately, the jumper was arrested as it appeared to mouth the words: I am going to kill you. Turns out Noel was from the future as well and was under the mind control of the jumper. A SWAT team managed to separate Noel from the jumper but at the cost of an arm. The jumper escaped & is still on the run somewhere in the world, often making video broadcasts on Youtube pretending to be the A-Team. More people are seen with Branson beards…is it a trend or something more sinister?
Blackboards & chalk, white plimsolls, cocktail parasols, boiler suits (sans serial killers), a sprawling rhododendron monster, a kidnapped storm-trooper, peer pressure, traded loyalties, marbled pecking order, a roll call of the guests, the bell rings, silence, a soul converted by a drawing pin, literary slight, jambo blight, precision incision, righteous exile, USSR sabotage, had to be a communist, no umbrella though, oaky pain, two for the price of one, semper paratus.
The industrial machine feeds on third world countries, ploughing through the poor, harvesting their organs, grinding their bones into novelty badges for tourists. Sign up for a package holiday, tribal/religious/social genocide, pay cash & six Claymore mines will be thrown in free of charge. Fuck sponsoring a child! Sponsor an AK47, your bullets can bring peace to the world, rivers of blood, pop on the camo armbands just in case the carnage spills over the invisible walls erected by the civilized countries. Grab a surfboard & ride the tsunami of bullshit, quickest way to travel in recession.
Not a single redeeming memory, go figure (skating)! It’s all about the lead pipes. Dressing up like expensive prostitutes from a nightmarish netherworld..who gives a fuck? Oh, I really want to do well, for my family for my supporters etc…rise of the sub-zeta celebs – what a bunch of self-involved wankers. Mandatory executions would have more of a message than any so-called comeback. Icons are cardboard cutouts, shitty Blue Peter montages sent in by muncos, bitch-fucked into life by Paparazzi Frankensteins tripping over clunky sound bytes in the pursuit of damnation. And what of redemption? You could find it on a scratch card…except you cannot because it is infected with the syphilitic hope of a better life without making the effort to change it. The winner will buy everyone a round of freshly squeezed Aids flown in especially from Botswana…and so it continues.
Paedos in speedos club 2gether and buy a decrepit van from the scrap yard, they pimp it with tinted windows, a big ice cream cone & childproof locks. No one knows who they are as they are protected from persecution. Heaven forbid sexual deviants could have their inhuman rights abused. The ice cream van music plays, and they sit there rubbing their thighs like drooling monsters. Protect the criminals, marginalize the law abiding, the day of reckoning is creeping up like a sex crime. Death penalty. Some think this is an extreme football game. Another idea for pay per view, the condemned criminal is quizzed Dysfunctional Family Fortunes style to see if he/she/he-she/she-he can win the execution of their choice…chucked out of a plane, gas chamber, lethal injection, electric sofa, Celine Dion concert…obviously a deal or no deal scenario is not an option, the contestant must die. Kudos for the Yemen who shot a child molester in the back of the head in public. Does anyone else wonder what happens to the sliced hands of thieves in the Middle East? Probably will turn up as an entry for the Turner Prize. The irony being that Turner would probably stab everyone with a sable paint brush. An Edward Hopper exhibition goes horribly wrong as serial killers step out of his paintings and massacre the champers-sipping cream of society. Someone hits the fire alarm, the sprinklers dissolve the killers until all there that remains in a pool of mixed paint & blood. “Cutting edge interactive expo!”, screams Time Out.
Roll some dice, seek direction, flee from or embrace the turpitude? Interchangeable mood…swing…bling…RSI…stooped rappers with bootilicious slappers. How can I argue, I don’t even know what the fuck they are saying? Mobile trash with plastic cash…street Monopoly…the jail is replaced with the job centre, everyone avoids going there unless it is benefits day. Fraud Squad on BMX rides, urban patois on slides, junkies tripping on the magic roundabout, Wombles still pick up litter but do not touch the Aids-infested syringes.
You deceived with me all your lies, bestow mercy on my dirtied soul, tainted with the mottled mosaic of the in(s)ane masqued ball known as life. Non-biodegradable conversations, use them once then dispose of them in an incinerator. Choking on ashen despair, fleeting dream of perfection, bandage Your soul with asbestos, it itches a little but You will evolve. DNA crime, genetic slime, speaking sheep, binary bleep, mutant race, misshapen face. They said the chimp showed no visible signs of distress while operating a robotic claw purely with the power of thought. Of course, he didn’t. Quite clearly when this chimp was in the jungle, chilling out, swinging around on trees, eating fresh fruit, gossiping about the gorillas, deep down in his mind, his career ambition was to leave the jungle behind, be fastened into a chair, have some head gear that would translate his brain patterns into a command to move a piece of machinery.
Plutonium heart, the future, geopolitical Zarathusa, the Anti-Messiah, the Fascinator. Totally self-sufficient so no need to plug Him in anywhere. Electricity is too expensive anyway. Glowing eyes, the healing touch of death, the insouciance of being the Alpha/Omega love child of the Fallen, the Damned. Seductive words cadence, beautiful illusions are woven into your waking dreams, irreality breakdown overlap. An American sued God but his case was thrown out as God had no address…surely he should have sued in the afterlife? Hell is other people. Especially on the spare plinth in Trafalgar Square.
Crosses start appearing in parks & tube stations, believers bleach their souls in preparation, civil unrest is rife, an atavism holds us in thrall, we like it, accepted social conventions are deemed laughable, smiling faces as the unbelievers are cut down with rusty Khmer Rouge machetes.
The Gherkin launches, a space ship for the rich, stellar crew list – Jagger & Bowie are jamming doughnuts Bob Marley style in an onboard mixing studio while Bono, the multimillionaire, lectures the world on everything. Thankfully, David Gahan & Trent Reznor happened to be indulging in a spot of RPG tomfoolery on the Thames and they blast that fucker out of the sky. Gahan & Reznor scream defiantly, “Fuck gherkins!” High fives & pancakes all round! While they are reloading, Bowie’s escape pod zooms along the Thames like skipping stone, ploughing through Big Ben whose mechanical death groan echoes around London. Bowie is frantically dialling for Major Tom who is in an F14, missiles locked…bleep bleep! Thank you for playing.
I look into your eyes, I see the future, My mind explodes into another dimension, cerebral excellence. I pick up the pieces and pop them in a steam cooker, should be okay in a few hours. What to serve as a side dish? Sticky fingers of greedy bankers? Better hang them by their ties first, interactive art as they are tethered from lampposts, the public throw dead rats at them, what fun! The butler sounds the gong, dinner is ready, main course is the corpse of Lazarus. The Glitterati want to survive the approaching storm, a slice of resurrection will do nicely. What they do not know is that this was not the prophet Lazarus but an illegal immigrant from Romania who died of Swine Flu.
Somali pirates bored with seizing oil tankers decide to attend the Cowes Festival. The Race around the Island had never been so exciting, bullets & grenades whip & explode. Crikey, I’ve spilled my pitcher of Pimms, the bloody pirates are not observing sailing etiquette! I will put in an official complaint! Indignant blazers grab crossbows, halberds & Kevin ‘Hungry Like a Wolf’ Costner to sort out the riffraff. Madonna cheers from the pavilion but she is told to be quiet and to get some clothes on because no one wants to see old people walking around seminude. It is enough to give anyone a Hollywood Whore complex.
Breaking news…the Labour Party’s spin doctors (NHS Doctors that spend more time DJ-ing than looking after OAPs left to die in corridors) have denied that democracy has been stolen by a foreign power (America was not under suspicion as they dish out democracy). Iran was deemed the chief culprit despite rumours that John ‘Oafish Twat’ Prescott was seen bundling it into the boot of his Jag. Red-faced, blustering, spittle-jowled Prescott expressed outrage, he punched three nuns in the face and had them arrested for assaulting him when in fact they had been chanting psalms. The Iranian President, in between shooting protesters Rambo style with an M60, stated democracy was a myth, a nightmarish bloated piece of American hamburger propaganda so corpulent with untruth that it could feed all of Africa. Jack ‘The Librarian’ Straw also denied democracy had been flown out of the UK on a covert USA fighter plane to be tortured in Timbuktu. Tony ‘Arrogant C*nt’ Blair just laughed & admitted, off the record, that he had been fucking democracy like a cheap whore whenever he could but had lost interest as it kept phoning him at home. David ‘Airbrushed’ Milliband admitted he had no idea where democracy was but felt that democracy did have some serious questions to answer should it ever set foot in England again. Kim Young shrieked in Korean but no one could be bothered to translate it so he pissed on a copy of the American Constitution and send it by Fed-Ex to George W Bush who thought it was a face wipe. All the brouhaha about democracy made Gordon ‘I have no integrity’ Brown more nervous than Prime Minister’s Question Time. What else could explain his pathetic choices in the so-called cabinet reshuffle? Well done on picking names from a hat & giving them a job funded by tax payers’ money, no need to even feign integrity any more. Nonetheless, if democracy wanted to seek political refuge in Scotland, The Right Dishonourable Mr Brown could not interfere with Scottish Parliament even though he is Scottish & English tax payers’ money is handed out even more freely there than to the benefit fraudsters in England. I can confirm democracy is in England, freshly released from Libya, having gained citizenship despite completing the form ticking all the following boxes…extortion, rape, genocide & terrorism.
The maelstrom of lies whip up grotesque aborted demons that feed on the homeless & lost tourists; they breed slug-like in the mud of the Thames, hatching abominations. A Cobra meeting decided that napalming the mutants was the only course of action. Unfortunately (or fortunately depending on your point of view) someone thought ‘mutants’ was a euphemism for the inbred dog-faced ghetto-grunting DNA social experiment that has gone horribly wrong thus large segments of London were destroyed. Lillywhites went bankrupt within a week.
Honing the Zarathusan spirit, mental acuity, smooth white mask of a mannequin, featureless, milky orbs, albumen membrane stretches, silent screams, tabernacle trump cards, roll call of the dead, stilled faces float into oblivion…were they even real? The sadness in their eyes cannot be photoshopped. Tears of a clown spilled from a toxic tanker. Trash from the EU is gift aid for the poor…decorate your shanty towns & ghettos with stained photos from glossy magazines, pretty faces of hollow people, postmodern scarecrows except they attract parasites, the go-faster stripes on their Lamborghinis are tape worms. Nouveau riche sans nobilite, plebs dressed up in expensive rags, preening before cameras that mis-sell the illusion as a dream. It is the century of lost dignity…the indignant glare of pathetic bovine carcasses…there are no layers to strip away, the void has entered us while we were flicking through Heat magazine & discussing the merits of non-entities in Big Brother.
Video surveillance crept in, a lamppost here, a high street there, CCTVs are the new traffic cones, ubiquitous & accepted. Sloth-like nation, where is your freedom? It has been hung, drawn & quartered then repackaged & sold in shiny morsels…homeless soup kitchens, car boot sales, cocaine, champagne…it has funded leather pews for churches, citizenship for foreign criminals, rapes in playgrounds, inbred nobility’s overseas jaunts…it is served up daily whenever a politician drinks from the chalice filled with the taxpayers’ blood…it is blessed whenever the Pope throws sharp crucifixes into the faces of kneeling sinners. What was the price of freedom? A novelty toy in a Kinder Egg? A voucher in a magazine for cosmetic surgery? The freak factory is hitting all its targets, no recession there, it will only close down when the world ends. No one is really sure who will chair Judgement Day. Apparently, God has a sick note excusing Him from any work that will cause undue stress; the blueprint for mankind seemed much simpler in the earlier phases, projects can be tricky, maybe He should have just carried on playing Boggle. An early favourite for the job is David Hasselhoff for his stirring television work. Grotesque is the buzz word. Inane chumps who have fuck all to say, high on the methane they emit, their rightful place is in the core of a nuclear reactor. I polish my nuclear bomb every day, it is so shiny that I can see the dead faces of all mankind, it is beautiful!
The rage swirls, gnawing on the soul, tearing chunks off, nestling in your chest liker a newborn alien ready to spring on to your dining table as an entrée or to be scorned & unloved, stabbed to death with scissors. The heart does overtime, pumping out fresh juice to the junkie who drinks it with careless abandon, drooling like a lusty vampire. Everything is different – voices, people, surroundings – you cannot even trust the sunshine, hostile zones, espionage phones, there is a war on, there are two sides, you are the only one behind the painted lines in the gymnasium, your white plimsolls are scuffed & dirty, successive tours of duty, the wooden horse needs to be burnt, pregnant with angry Spartans, a good old-fashioned alarum; grab a handful of glowing embers & wash your face, it won’t cleanse your soul, it is too tainted, too many Trojans thrown from the walls of Ilion, too many broken corpses. Redemption? It’s a start I suppose. Sickly stench of burnt flesh or is it the decaying corruption lolling about in Parliament? Caricatures in suits, hoots moot loot. Zombie nation igniting postal votes to warm their squalid homes. The Carnival is open all year round. Grab a deckchair and swap faces on the pier. People drown in shallow puddles while the emergency services make cups of tea.
The lies are sharper, cutting deep like an insistent adze, bladed intent, sacrificial portent. Nail me to a cross (or failing that, a zebra crossing), render unto me a crown & sceptre. Dethroned Anti-Messiah overlapping from the irreal, deleted scenes served up with beans; He may make it on to the hyped futural DVD release of ‘The Director’s Final Cut Special Tri-Millennial Anniversary delimited (s)edition’. The line dancing legionnaires drowning Christians in the Tiber is the emperor’s bollocks! His sceptre will dash out the brain’s of the mutated inbred illiterati; He will unpluck thorns from His brow & throw them into the streets, glittering sin, damnation to win; He will bind His followers to lampposts & railway bridges until carrion have stripped the corses; He will give the Thames an enema, flushing out consciences, infected syringes & used condoms…a primordial tribe shall spring up from the shit & the lies, they will hunger for the truth, whatever the cost.
Creaking guitars unite students, New Age hippies & the homeless – cover the versions with a body bag & drop them in the Channel. Muffled acoustic pings on sonar, could there be mermaids or has someone deep-sixed the rejects from a talentless show? By mistake, some fisherman net a top secret underwater military base which bobs on the surface like an angry plastic duck. The fishing boats are destroyed but not before a crewman has texted an image of mercs unleashing a barrage of RPGs whilst they gang rape electric eels.
Discordant slaying of language, an assault on your idyll, raucous aggression in the face of repression; diphthong vowels sashaying in skimpy towels, lederhosen umlauts lurking in kumquats, no one wants to know where the Silent H lives. Strange & reclusive, we could cope with a Tourette’s barrage or the insolent glare of manifest inbreeding more easily. The Silent H drips with the greasy lies that fall from Tony Blair’s smile as he flosses dead soldiers from his wolfish teeth. The machine rolls on, harvester of happiness, sorrow, dreams & nightmares, grinding, rewinding, chewing & spewing on the gristle of pulped humanity. The machine has no soul, travelling far & wide, gathering tokens for ringside seats at Judgement Day.
Where can you find sanctuary? The truth is there is no sanctuary. A tear falls from your heart. You can find distractions…violent drawings with angry eyes, ambiguous words immersed in humanitas or pretence, experiments with slithers of brain, maybe that is a the future, an artificial brain assembled by the pick & mix method, imagine if they could, the sterile white coats locked in labs creating horror in the name of science, the brain would have to be insane, it would go on tour, speech giving for a nominal fee, the words would split brethren more cleanly than the atom, there would be no Swiss mentality as all fences & walls would be knocked down, unsegregation, join us or die! Scientists would flee their monster clutching plastic bags stuffed full of eyes as they know it aspires to be a postmodern Argus. (NB: education warning, I am not fucking talking about a shop!)
Silver humanoids sparkle as they teleport through microwaves; they have books, photos, some real, some fake. A few decapitations later & the cull is over. Porn & buckets, disposable lust makes distinctive wallpaper. You find a cell full of mirrors, you can peer inside & see those who are already trapped, you want to join not free them; maybe it is the bright colours that have effected your mind, you rattle the padlocked door, it will not yield, you would have to split yourself in two to gain ingress, it’s an option. Rustling of crisp packets, chomp chomp, the herd yoked 24/7/365.25 in the trough of consumerism, ahhhh, the invisible religion that spears with credit cards, the mob, faces pressed up against dirty windows, worshipping the shiny altars replete with iconically nippled mannequins, enjoy your moment of religious ecstasy, you window lickers!
Change shakes its wet limbs, the Anti-Messiah is coming of age, soft broken forms fall in His wake. This world belongs to Him & it is oh so ripe to be fucked like an anxious virgin. Today is the day when time will be exposed a gimmick for the needy. He dresses in a pinstriped suit & after considerable deliberation chooses a golden patterned tie, some formalities still need to be observed. His invitation to unleash the backwash of untrammelled sin to its source states in small print: smasual (no jeans or trainers). He checked his task list on the Blackberry, ah yes, the infamous 7th Seal, bad luck humanity, some things in the Bible are real.
A vast clanking mechanical sound thundered around the planet, the Anti-Messiah was also Opener of the Way, the 7th Seal was sluggishly unfurling like a leviathan, spreading across the expanse…
The Jester walks out of the labyrinth. The ringmaster of the Carnival, the Dweller from the Abyss, his hunger for death is only exceeded by the Anti-Messiah. The Jester’s bells jingle, the melody burrows into the weakest, most infected & diseased souls…their souls catch fire from within. The Anti-Messiah strides along Oxford Street cleansing people of their debts, it is a massacre. Do not worry about buying a ticket for the performance they have all been prepaid with your souls.