Prophecy

Metallic watches, ticking orbs of illusion…what can you tell me? Wrap me up within the folds of time, it will only cost a dime. The rigid hands reach out to stab my throat, time impales…sacrifices & lusty murder. Who are the masters? Ghosts flutter like vague dreams, whisper my destiny then cut out your tongues, I have a bucket for your offerings, did you not realise this was an abattoir? Dull cow eyes filled with fear, shuffle along the conveyor belt, we will create monuments from your bones and etch graffiti with knives, centuries later they will read them without understanding, who were the savages? A prophetess made of glass, drinking opiate inspiration, Sibylline utterances, swords are grasped.
Lampposts are false beacons, they betray you, shadowy figures lurk while you cling to the light. Flickering yellow, blinking reality, slipping inside the soft angles. Do you feel hunted? They are out there, waiting, light & darkness mean nothing to them. The candle wavers, a shift in the aether, coldness seeps. A warrant has been issued, drowning phantasms in a waterfall, assuaged energy, the thirst invigorates, marshmallow landscapes, mutating, immolating. Faceless mannequins stumble, they escaped the vitreous façades, discounted & de-marginalised, why fight for a vote when you can just kill? Democracy is a myth, greed & arrogance are the tenets of rule. Political vampires draining us dry of our life-force, slowly, implacably, such conceit! Vultures will peck out their eyes, grasping hands seek charity but they have turned our hearts to stone, flung into the Thames, pagan rituals to honour the gods, which ones? Any will do as long as there is a human sacrifice…what trend do the viewing figures favour…a fleshy pumping ruby ripped from a chest, it will be swapped with a burning piece of wood, in it goes, there you go good as new, welcome to the NHS. Doctor, I think the patient is dead. Put him out back with the others. We are running out of room(s). Have you been trained to use a flame-thrower? Whoosh, a fiery tongue caresses, purging our sins. Expiation. What was that explosion, Doctor? Looks like we need a new trainee. See if you can save any of the organs.
Cathedrals of hypocrisy, pick a pew, prefer suffering? The ecstasy of the martyrs. That is art for you, glorifying painful torturous murders, if you turn the other cheek it will be sliced from your very face and eaten by the homeless. Cheek by jowl. A choice cut, two TV chefs battle for the winning sauce, in poor taste? The correct garnish can hide a multitude of decomposing vegetables. The EU quota must be followed, too many fish, throw them back in, so what if they are dead, do as you are fucking told. You are not a very civil servant! Less backchat or you will end up in one of those landfills in China. Is that covered in the EU quota as well? More a reinterpretation. You will easily fit inside a wheelie bin. As long as it is the one with my house number on.
Syringes gleam like expect smiles. It won’t hurt a bit. Isn’t unusual to be jabbed in the head? Infusion of crystalline delusion, faces stretch, hands grasp, jump from the bridge, swirling liqueous grave. Images are caged blackly, don’t light a match, you will wake them. What is that in the distance? The path of the righteous. Is it new? No one has ever walked along it. Another construction quango. Everything will be okay, won’t it? Recession is a myth, it is all the public’s fault. I thought the Labour Prime Minister, Chancellor & greedy mortgage lenders were to blame? Are you a communist? Did you not see the PM’s fine speech, the forecast is good. I thought he was talking about the weather! I heard lots of pigeons kamikaze-ed Nelson’s column during the speech. Ah, see, that is the patriotism this country needs. Well, I am not cleaning that up. Don’t worry the rats will. Fallen angels…were they cast out or did they just forget how to fly? You get more Air Miles in a Boeing 747 to Australia then you would flying around the celestial spheres. Don’t even start me on the tolls!
Striped contours, floor, wall, ceiling, trapped in a cube, wrap my mind in blue cellophane, it will make a good passport photo. No smiling or you will have to pay £20. Can I pay in Euros? Fuck off! You are in England, our Empire spans the planet. Don’t read much do you? The Commonwealth is all that is left & most of them would happily exile the Royal Family to Tierra del Fuego. I hear that puffins visit it to sniff peach schnapps, off their beaks they are, they shear the sheep so they look like giant poodles. Pissed Puffins! Did you see the docu? It was great, they wrecked the recreational centre. So now the kids have nowhere to play? No, now the kids have nowhere to score dope.
The blue sky turns crimson, the clouds are on fire, fluffy Zeppelins, hydrogen wraiths whirl, banners to unfurl, alliances are chosen, the paid audience cheers, the impoverished jeer, drifting shades that haunt the streets. Can you spare some change? Do I look like a fucking ATM? Charity begins at home! Oh, the irony! I work the stock exchange, I am the suit behind the man, Saville Row, a stitch in time. An umbrella with an ivory handle, stylish, non PC, we can afford to be. Gentleman’s Club, no lap dancers, inherited tradition, blue bloods, inbred some say. Polo & rugger, tally ho, boating in the Thames, watch out for the whale! Excuse me, old boy, I don’t mean to be presumptuous but you are buggering up our yearly regatta, it’s terribly important. The whale was hungry, too many E numbers, binge eating on fast food, the rowing boats were not fast enough.
The blue mirror is empty, where is my reflection? Someone has stolen it, I keep looking behind me, hoping it will wave back. A nuclear kiss billows, waxen figures melt, tears flood out of broken hearts, flaming ruination. From the ashes, the Nuclear Messiah, atomic angels hover, this time there is no redemption, thorns will wreathe. Splintered crucifix, buckled soul, blue static, blue umbrella, rusted Stygian horizon, a severed phone line, divine miscommunication, rerouted fate, palest blue porcelain memory, You drink a glass full of withered petals, choking on dust, death is grinning, gracile & furtive, a fatal caress, vast floorboards creak under the weight of shadows, tread carefully, abyssal pools of seduction, injuries wrapped in linen, barbed wire was the accessory, like a second skin to be cast away, flailing & inhaling, something wicked this way comes, defiant youth, disjointed tooth, inbred trash, societal crash, playing with knives? Not for stabbing, old skool rave, they called it acid but who knows what the fuck it was? Purple Ohms, a new kind of vision, distortion of energy, creatures slink in the twilight, they are probably always there, fourth dimension some say but where is the last dimension? An enraged waiter beats a man to death with a baguette, bread rage is on the up, only last week a woman was bread rolled to death, she had been baking the wrong type of dough, rules are rules, especially if it is scribed in a book that is immutable. Free thought is a sin.
A millionaire was cryogenically frozen. Was he trying to buy time? If so, who was he billing – God? I guess the cheque bounced as there was a power-cut, he thawed out but was trapped in the pod so suffocated. A modern day parable. & now for a paramour…the porn star climaxes and bursts into flames. The professor threw out his thesis about spontaneous combustion being caused by sexually repressed neurotics and cleaned his pistol, musing on its ironically phallic symbolism before shooting himself in the head. A priest cleared up the mess with a dustpan & brush, he did not have much time for science as it embodied heresy. Quantum physics and black holes, where was the beauty in that? He pressed his crucifix to his lips, praying for a new Crusade.
A pack of hyenas running amok in the House of Commons, the police laughed, not the best of euphemisms. They were not laughing when they saw a hyena run past with the head of the Prime Minister, who was still drearily droning on, apparently not realising he had been decapitated. They jumped on their bikes, pedalling furiously but lost the hyena in the Tube, turns out it had a season ticket! The hyena obviously had a sense of humour, an anonymous tip off helped the police locate the PM’s head at Traitor’s Gate. The Prime Minister was very annoyed, complaining of a severe headache.
The skinny lattes were assembling in Shoreditch. MI5 did not know how many of them were present as they all looked alike with their skinny jeans, second hand tops & unkempt hair. You could be walking up a street that seemed empty but a hundred skinny lattes could easily be queued up behind a lamppost. It was easier to get a Caucasian graduate from Eton into a deep cover terrorist cell in Iraq than get someone inside the skinny latte movement. Sure, an extensive knowledge of existentialism, a beret & a pipe would not have anyone bat an eyelid but the moment you could not disappear from sight simply by standing behind an anorexic size zero model, well, it marked you as an outsider. MI5 operatives spent months studying surveillance footage slowed down to a thousandth of a second and concluded that at least 145,000 skinny lattes lived in one Shoreditch square mile alone. Sleeper cells were operating in charity shops, skinny lattes were smuggled in & out in the bags, after all, how could you find one, they could be folded in a Jackie Collins novel?
A crescendo of applause, the pianist bows but is suddenly eaten by the grand piano, the applause is momentarily stopped then resumes with fervour, how wonderfully avant-garde. Next week’s performance would be a ballet performed by amputees that survived the Khmer Rouge, a prodigal opus. The Turner Prize is awarded for a sculpture made out of rusty, partially melted, soup cans, simply entitled ‘Souped Up’, It later transpires that the cans were from Chernobyl & Britain hysterically accuses Russia of a covert nuclear attack. Putin smiles grimly as he watches CNN & puts in an order for some umbrellas with poisonous tips.
The hubbub of Oxford Street, hordes of determined shoppers armed with sharp credit cards, slashing their way to purchases. Shopping is now a habit rather than a necessity, remember that as your house is repossessed. The security alarm blares, stolen CDs cascade to the ground, the career criminal shrugs nonchalantly, he will be out in a week, for every time he is sentenced, there are five times he has not been caught. Unfortunately, for the thief, an interesting new law has been sneaked through the Commons to help alleviate the problem with overcrowding in prison; the security guard pulls out an Uzi and shoots the thief dead, everyone freezes then cheers, the security guard smiles as he utters some inane Americanism like, “Now that’s what I am talking about!”
The child gestures to the motionless water, he could walk on it. The epoch is out of joint, no miracles for the moment otherwise he would end up being consigned to life imprisonment on daytime television programmes where terrifying mutants screech at each other incoherently. Where do television producers find these monsters? Underground caves, sanatoriums or housing estates? It’s a wonder that anyone has the courage to leave their home on a daily basis.
The Cross became malleable, through no fault of Its own, our whims have corrupted It. Pilgrimages to undertake, mythical beasts to slay. The dormant Sphinx sprouted wings & flew away, the Egyptians chased after it like insane children, until they died. One quick economy flight to Egypt (the taxpayer kindly covered the cost) & the Asbo kids sort the Sphinx out by spraying it with graffiti tags. The Sphinx was so confused trying to decipher the symbols that it crashed into the Isle of Wight, the antique masonry was a big hit with the yachties. White caps, cravats & canvas shoes, moustaches are optional, pipes are not. Quick glide around the Channel, hoping not to be sunk by any submarines, and back to the harbour for tea & scones.
At night, the sea is darksome, tainted with fear, mottled with souls, skeletons glide near the surface, searching for memories. One of them had been an angel who had flown too close to the Lord, the sun resembled a pulped heart, his wings were singed, an aqueous doom, mere flotsam/jetsam. Dawn tinges the horizon with creeping orangey tendrils, the souls shrink down to the depths, sunlight reminds them of loss & heartache. A conch falls like a discarded halo.
The killer wears shadows, it is a hollow mask, his glib smile shines like a dagger. The highway sways & blinks like a concrete snake, bewitching him. Change shakes its wet limbs, portals fluctuate like molten honey, sweet to taste, oblivion will be granted. But for now he will continue to be a bus driver, “Exact change, please!”
Global warming…what is the problem? As long as corporations are making huge profits & a percentile of the profit ends up in a politician’s back pocket, what does it matter that the Earth is raped? I know I would rather have a offshore bank account with huge wads of money than acknowledge that the world is spinning to ruination. The planet will shake free from its shackles, countries will be cast into the oceans, cities will become tombs, nature will reassert its dominance, mobile phones & I-pods won’t help you, a global EPM will see to that, chaos in the truest darkest sense will be prevalent. Who will rise up? A Messiah or a Fascinator? The sun will be as black as the Hiroshima angel. The horror, the horror.

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