Monday, July 10, 2017

Life is a Journey from Flight to Landing



Spending time in airports is perhaps the most wasteful of activities.
There is a thin veneer of civility about the whole process, especially for those who are there for reasons other than the joy of holiday flying.
My companion has a very restricted view of the world, a view that is primarily ego driven. He accepts the brittle crust of the accepted view without question. In fact he is a man of many words but very few questions.
And yet his humour, that which makes people laugh, is incisive.
To this extent he is the perfect Tory voter: blind to facts and unwilling to ask “why” to the man, the boss, the fuckers that're limiting artistic potential of every one of us.
Where is the freedom?
The freedom to become a mechanic who knows more than just how to change tyres; the manufacturer who takes pride in his product (rather than his pocket); the broken man who receives care and considerate assistance to recover himself.
The Tories, right now, seem a to believe that they still have enough… goodwill amongst the populace to be able to sneer at us and tell us “no” and we won't complain, cause we don't want to pay more tax do we? And everybody knows that labour will have to raise taxes in order to fulfil their obligation to clean this fucking country up; to wipe the coke laced champagne vomit from the streets of “the city”; to drag us kicking and screaming back into a society that was once on course to become.
To become all that is good about people when they are content to treat one another with respect.
So the Tories think they've brainwashed enough people like my companion here in this shitty airport to continue with their masterplan: the’ve just about finished stealing all the furniture and services from the house, they've removed large sections of the roof, undermined the foundations, and now there preparing the wrecking ball (by invitation only) where they will strictly come dance the night away over our prostrate, forelock-tugging peasant bodies.

Bon voyage zombies.

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

Tuchulcha the World-Eater

The Yin & Yang of World Hunger ~ David Revoy

Down between the parallel line phosphor-edge burn, walking perhaps an inaccurate description for forward movement, my wounds no longer raw but ache like a lost love in a dream of darkened rooms.

Overturned transposer drone mag-unit whining in the ozone grit, my teeth misaligned molars clash against the unity of my skull encasing dark after-images of the fact that we are all fucked.

You don’t have to be a soothsayer to taste the future’s entropic decay, leaves glow like coals as they reduce to skeletal remnants of screams from the nearby buildings.

Arms reach out in my general direction then retract from eye contact unwilling to face another soul-search at the hands of this inquisitor whose tattered camo-flesh stutters in staccato malfunction image-flashing scenes from yesterday’s version of the apocalypse.

Don’t judge me don’t question my belief circuits I know very well what I do.
Don’t suspend your disbelief if you don’t want to; I don’t care.
Don’t invest in demons if you’re not prepared to be possessed.
Don’t fuck with this apparition all clad in righteous anger and armed with cold abandon.

Down past the place where we used to talk, back before we lost that skill, before we buried it all in Lithium COLumbite-TANtalite and plastic, back before we forgot that in order to live we need to eat; in order to breathe we need to breathe.

Ghosts scatter in my force-field’s static roar, their eyes white un-pupilled but focused like vengeance on the possibility of just one last look at the screen that so recently fed their needs now blank but shiny still – a smile on a corpse.

Coming in too close to this here apparition I don’t advise, I’ll take your everything and add it to the yelling in my head, take your soulchip and anything else you’ve managed to cling to and I will laugh until I am able to piss myself once more.
I will channel this day with legs that won’t stop walking and arms that won’t stop taking whatever life comes within reach of gnarled hands blue-veined across tendons cantilevering those fingers remaining to fist or claw, tentacle-ing tactile dulled to sandpaper and possessed of automatically written tracts on the etiquette of mindless survival.

I am god I am totem-headed I am gravity I am everything you pretended wasn’t going to happen, everything that was already happening before you had the guts to imagine it, I walk between you and the possibility of a future – I am now visible and as unaccountable as ever.

Sunday, June 11, 2017

Now What are You going to do with Your Time?

Black Mirror 2.8 - Charlie Brooker's Masterpiece

Once it was the dream of every man to be able to film himself having sex.
Now that this opportunity is widely available he wants to film himself doing everything.
He times himself while out running
How fast did I go?
He counts his heartrate constantly, measures the condition of his sleep patterns.
How many steps did I do today?
Selfies at every conceivable occasion (no pun intended).
And when not actively involved in living his life to the full, he is obliged to witness his fellow man doing the same (but better).
How many ‘likes’ did you give/get today?

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Under The Flag

Akiya Kageichi
Indira Gilgamesh looked on in wonder as they drape their grief in the blood-stained flag that had been so instrumental in the genocide of their children. She wonders if it is ignorance of history that has so numbed people to the lie of patriotism, a lie that allows them to represent themselves at sports events as if they are going to war; a lie that allows them to believe that they, and those who represent them, are innocent of the causes for their immediate grief and indeed for the widespread grief of global war.
Is it ignorance of history or merely ignorance of the fact that history, as it is taught to them, is a lie?
Indira sees the millions, polarised under their flags, motivated by the lies of their controllers, their exploiters, their media feeds and social network bubbles, herded into binary cells of yes/no, black/white, good/evil, us/them, there to be armed with the ammunition required to keep themselves safe within their designated cells, there to be inoculated from the reality of their ignorant lives.
Indira raises the lens to her eye and presses the trigger.
The act of transferring reflected light onto a flat, photo-sensitive surface transforms the grief coloured parade of flag-draped mourners into images of honour and defiant pride.

Wednesday, May 24, 2017

The Dichotomy of Political Violence


The agents arrive at the corner of the building; matt black against the alleyway shadows, weapons dull gleaming. Intelligence has led them to believe that Haptic Destra is not to be trusted, that her voice has become too loud.
To the white noise soundtrack of the war on everything they have gathered her data and built up the evidence against her.
The world knows nothing of this.
The agents approach the revolving doors of the empty building that official data proclaims to be the home of Haptic Destra.
She watches from the flat roof of a building on the other side of the street.
Contemptuous in their arrogance, aloof in their contempt, they, after all, hold all of the cards, all of the weapons and all of the technology – or so they think.
They are winning the war.
The planes are in the air, their presence sometimes media-spectacular (a necessary brandishing of weaponry) and sometimes covert-invisible - depending on the truth-economic agenda.
The agents are on the stairs, their armour will be no match for the charges that await Haptic’s signal, the fuse that awaits her flame.
Across the world they’re reducing cities to blood-soaked rubble, this particular building will be nothing in comparison, but will almost certainly be a far greater media event in the war – significance is location dependant:
here - terrorist attack – evil
there - war on terror - good.
The button is on the phone; the phone is in her hand; her head is clear for the first time in forever.
The agents are in an empty room, the myth of security is instantly torn; ripped ear to ear from the establishment’s pale and aristocratic throat; the code word for today is Nothing.


Tales for the attention deficit reader