Top or bottom, face the monster, let him know
I was born to entertain, so here I go
~ Julian Cope ‘Las Vegas Basement’ 1991
I was born to entertain, so here I go
~ Julian Cope ‘Las Vegas Basement’ 1991
 |
| Dreams ~ Vittorio Matteo Corcos |
I am, as always, a matter of style and taste.
I will not sleep for long, there is no room for dreams in this life.
The world moves on while we sleep, making deals that, once missed, we may never recover.
Some say that all we do and all we achieve, we do to avoid looking at death in the mirror.
I dream of the mirror through which I have walked, and now - like a child in a tale from the Steppes - I am immortal.
I am awakened by the echo of Giles’ first call.
Mirror. Mirror.
My body’s tight, my teeth are white; I’m open for business.
My face a mask of stark style and dark taste; the pain endured to have the Arabian Stripe across cheekbones and nose was worth it for the fetish effect – it shimmers aurora-like; a horizontal halo of power beneath my eyeline.
The hi-rez monitor outside the meeting room shows me Giles with a Farmie in tattered brown leather and canvas; Nikos holding her manacled arms with one mitt and in the other a fetish encrusted stick which no doubt is seen by her and her type as a power source.
Farmies are obsessed with power, but they insist on going about it in all the wrong ways.
The state of her face pays testament to Giles’ style of negotiation, but it doesn’t hide the mask of ink she’s had installed since last she was in town - and you don’t get work like that in some enclave, or even in Bigmark for that matter; this is high-level fetish, deeper than my Arabian Stripe, although not as beautiful. There’s only one place where they can do this sort of work: Metal.
I remember her – a shit-stirrer at the Carny back in ’38; a good year for us; the moment we pivoted about the axis of evil, gained impetus and got back in control.
I savour the moment with a breath that puts all things on a level for what lies ahead.
Sometimes it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, sometimes it takes a bit more work.
I will not sleep for long, there is no room for dreams in this life.
The world moves on while we sleep, making deals that, once missed, we may never recover.
Some say that all we do and all we achieve, we do to avoid looking at death in the mirror.
I dream of the mirror through which I have walked, and now - like a child in a tale from the Steppes - I am immortal.
I am awakened by the echo of Giles’ first call.
Mirror. Mirror.
My body’s tight, my teeth are white; I’m open for business.
My face a mask of stark style and dark taste; the pain endured to have the Arabian Stripe across cheekbones and nose was worth it for the fetish effect – it shimmers aurora-like; a horizontal halo of power beneath my eyeline.
The hi-rez monitor outside the meeting room shows me Giles with a Farmie in tattered brown leather and canvas; Nikos holding her manacled arms with one mitt and in the other a fetish encrusted stick which no doubt is seen by her and her type as a power source.
Farmies are obsessed with power, but they insist on going about it in all the wrong ways.
The state of her face pays testament to Giles’ style of negotiation, but it doesn’t hide the mask of ink she’s had installed since last she was in town - and you don’t get work like that in some enclave, or even in Bigmark for that matter; this is high-level fetish, deeper than my Arabian Stripe, although not as beautiful. There’s only one place where they can do this sort of work: Metal.
I remember her – a shit-stirrer at the Carny back in ’38; a good year for us; the moment we pivoted about the axis of evil, gained impetus and got back in control.
I savour the moment with a breath that puts all things on a level for what lies ahead.
Sometimes it’s like shooting fish in a barrel, sometimes it takes a bit more work.
| Julian Cope | ||
| Las Vegas Basement | ||
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