draft

90 year old woman in magenta lipstick, drinking champagne out the bottle
french kissing herr young lover,
Dior sunglasses sheilding a basilisks stare
'Darling, must dash, I have a flight to LA leaving in 20 minutes'
last swig of bolly
a tossed-off snog
and she's gone
silver handbag flashing in her wake.

vast rooms, empty of all ornament
brightly lit and throbbing with percussive noise
inside, men in suits are furiously drinking
leering at TV screens
on which images of scantily clad women
thrust and gyrate, in parody of lust.

they shout out the screens
they shake up bottles of lager before opening them
and send jets of frothy beer
spurting towards the television screens

Later, the screens are ignored
some men are sleeping in sticky pools of lager
others are hugging each other, weeping
others are fighting.

On the screens the women are still gyrating

the music has stopped and the bright light look down on the scene
dispassionately.
this happens every friday and saturday night
in every town and every city.

It is a ritual of self-abasement and it is taken very seriously.

Of course, someones making money from all this.
There's always someone.
Some profiteer with a sufficient lack of scruple
well, good luck to 'em, let them exploit those dopey cunts
see if i care.

In another room
men and women sit in front of screens which flash with bright lights
loud exicitng noises gurgle, whizz and ring from hidden microphones
an array of big inviting buttons beg to the pressed
the men and women sit for hours watching the lights and listeing to the noise
hours and hours
without talking
seemingly unaware of those they share the room with
the lights flash and the noise whirl
and huge debts are incurred.

pretty girls and hunky boys wear cool clothes and date one another
and make friends and fall out with one another
and everyone wants to be in their gang
but we can't
cos we're not pretty or hunky enough
not me, i'm an ugly cunt
and you probably are too
they don't even acknowlege us
so we follow them round
watching what they do,
and if we get a chance, we take pictures of them
or we look at the pictures other people have taken
and we talk to each other about them
we'd love to see them naked. we've got a few pictures of them at the beach
in bikinis or swimming trunks. they're good.
sometimes you can tell
they're not really perfect, not gods.
like, they could be looking a bit rough one day, or a bit chubby or something
gives you a different perspective. whe you see them like that

course, theres some kids, hard bastards
always fighting
i love fighting
you know, watching it
and guns, and explosions and that
fuck yeahh
BOOM BBOOM BRRRAPP RATTTATTAATAAT
watch it all the time on the television screens
and read about it in the newspapers
this gang done over this gang then that gang got back at them by blowing up their hideout and
bang bang bag

its good innit
kill
kill
kill
there's a lot of people that deserve to die isn't there
hunt them down and kill them.
flush them from thir hiding places and torture them
capture them and make them hurt
make them suffer
humiliate those fucking cunts
they make me scared
we should hurt them
hurt them for what they did to us, how the scared us
i hate them

lets cook... oo i love food, its so delicious isn't it
nice bit of food grown by a farmer in a muddy field
all earthy and lovely. you can do so many things with food
i mean
there's 5 ingredients
and you can comine them in so many differnt ways
every night you can have something different almost
well, not every night
but you can rotate the meals so you're not eating the same thing every single day
like they did in the olden days. today we can add pepper, or even cinnamon
or have a chai latte. its so amazing. the things oyu can get at the farmers market
the best potatoes you'll ever eat.

lets got to work
then come home and eat potatoes from the farmers market
then we can follow a recipe from spain or morroco or something
i'll put on moorish dress and do a belly dance
get in the mood like
and we can listen to music
whos that girl with the nice voice and the cheeky attitude
oh, shes so pretty, isn't she going out with that hunky one
they
re such a lovely couple
so beautiful.
then we can watch the sun set over the chimney stacks

that old man down the road is weird, i don't like him
he raises weasels, lets set his house on fire

then we can pray to god
it makes me feel nice
thinking of god
im not religious, i just like feeling nice
sometimes i meditate cos it makes me feel all relaxed
and spiritual and connected

in a room thats clogged with incense
men and women are sitting crosslegged on pillows of mustard cress
oming to themselves
they look terribly earnest
their motives are unhealthy
they are damaged people
they flinch from loud noises
conflict scares them
they will do anyhting to avoid it
ommmmmm
they have conversations in hushed voices
and never disagree

id like to throw a rat in the lap of one of those crosslegged cunts
to be perfectly honest
what you scared of?
ommmmm
'i don't deal with negativity, it exists on a eavlength i can no longer tune into'

there is a teacher
i don't trust him
he is at the front
and puts lot of effort into looking spiritual
he interprets that as being serious mostly
but sometimes smiling beatificallly
and for no apparent reason
he's got a shaved head and a lean wiry figure
i think he's a compulsive masterbater.

he keeps wanthing to touch the girls

on the streets theres a protest
down with them
down with them
all the teenagers are shouting
theres leaders there too
and they want to touch the young people too
and they want to hear them parroting slogans
it makes them hot

and we let a few people starve to death
beacuse we don't like them much
they're ugly for a start


on the trains and buses that transport the work force to their places of work
women are swapping photoes of good looking people
look at him there, oh, he's so hot
oh, i want to have sex with him
oh, im getting all moist
just thinking abnout it

and then they talk about shoppping or something

while some kid says he's going to jum over some smalle kids on his bmx
jump off a ramp and let his momentum propell him over their prone bodies
only he doesn't
he lands on them
deliberately
for a laugh

every morning and every evening we sit on the labour trains
its one experience we have in common i spose
we all know what its like sitting on the labout train
getting shunted to work


at work there are 6 boys and 6 girls
they are wired up to machines that bleep
every time the machine bleeps they have to perform a specific function
a different one for each tone of bleep
the bleeps go really fast
and theres a lot of different tones to memorise
they're really fast
beep
beep
beep
and they're really proud of how fast they can go
when someone messes up, no one helps
they like it
cos it makes them feel like theyre better
no one wants to be the worst at their job do they?
you want to feel competent
like you can manage
like you can keep to the rhythm of the bleeps
the trick is
to internalise the operations
so you can completely supress the conscous mind
and run wholly off instinct
like a highly trained athlete
they learn from repition also
beep
beep
beep
and everywhere the machines are beeping
and everyhwere people are rushing around
in obesquience to the beeps

you wouldnt want to be a tramp would you
look how sad and defeated they look
knowing they cant dance to the beeps
unbale to master the wild yet controlled flailing of limbs
each movement, an effienct response to a bleep

Imposter! Usurper!

Tear off his crown!

Unthrone him!

Trample his silks and ermines

Bedaub his rainments with mud!

Pull Down his Insignia.

Smash his monuments!

Topple his statues! Occupy his palaces!

Scupper all ornament and finery.

Uproot his gardens and set fire to his orchards.

Reverse his victories. Unpick his skirt of territories

Make his a name to coax laughter from children,

A name to excite derision and hooting scorn.

Have history condemn him and

deinigrate his every achievement

Cast doubt on his assertions.

Blaspheme against his gods,

and persecute his followers…

The demands made of us are too great

the load is too heavy.

It is inhuman.

I am very tired.

These shackles are too tight

these chains too heavy.

Who is he to strike such poses?

To stand in such triumphal pomp?

To waft the sceptre so airily

and issue such cruel decree?

To ignore our every plaint and petition

to be so indiffernt to our suffering?

Specimens under glass.

What right has he? What right?

By whom was it bestowed?

Dismantle his castles!

Bring low his works!

Tear down his Towers!

For did we not raise them?

Was it not our sweat and sinew

under duress,

under whip and threat,

which raised the stone so high?

Our curses and grunting,

We who built these momunents

to our own coercion.

the usurpation of our volition-

the commandeering of our energies.

Jewels enchant the light

Precious metals

He was not there

Scrabbling in the dirt,

stooped in the mines,

We uprooted them,

cut and polished them,

meekly surrendered them.

We who sacrified ourselves in war

Immolated ourselves in labours,

of no benefit to ourselves or our families

watched our lives slip by,

in service to another.

Catering to his whims, servicing

his greed.

Buying back the things we build

…and our lives slip by in labours

and the days lose their meaning

and time

is suspended, or contracted

into a tiny,

orderly

loop.

In which the same things are repeated,

In the same order,

Indefinitely.

And time keeps contracting

only it moves so much faster

the outlines are blurring

and the same shapes

recurring

the patterns are repeating

the stories unchanging

around and around

till it feels as if we were

static

and that time

is twirling

around us

spinning swifter and swifter

till larger patterns

are discerned

from the blur

of the smaller.

UNLEARN HIS LANGUAGE

UNWEAVE HIS SPELLS

RESTORE TIME TO ITS FORMER DIMENSISONS

Breath which births speech,

living and protean,

patterned as air currents

as sand rippled by tide surges

or stone, harried by wave and wind.

Patterned as sea

as sky and star

patterned as outreach of branches

efflorescence of leaf and flower.

Patterned

as the flight paths of insects

and swallows

in pursuit of insects.

As swift and elastic as those…

And there are many things perpetually changing

and many other things which do not change.

Stories are unchanging, and the characters unchanging also.

Roles inhabited

by each

succeeding

generation.

And the characters interact in the same fashion

and according to the same ineluctable logic.

And yes, there is, from time to time, some local uprising

but these are of brief duration and have no lasting consequences,

no meaningful ramifications.

Scripts are rewritten. Roles reassigned

and normal service resumed.

The momentum is lost.

The energy spent.

History reverts to its former contours.

Waterfalls are a senseless prattle

and birdsong loses its harmony.

The air is clogged with dust

so that breathing is hampered

and it is unwise to drink the water.

There is noise always

abrasive, formless, shrill

and images crowd the vision.

There is no silence

and no stillness.

The mind is caught in mirror-worlds

and dreams of another's devising

Thought polluted as air and desire

perverted from its true course

re-routed

as by a system of dams, resoviours and canals.

The mind is led to labyrinths

and moves without progressing

Mirages flicker in the coridoors

and energy is disippated

in their pursuance.

What species of magic is this

which holds us so firmly in its thrall?

A conjurors trick no more, the diversion of attention

conceals the sleight of hand.

A swindle, performed by a swindler.

Our labours are unceasing

No harvest is gathered

No period of repose enjoyed

No period of consolidtion.

No Endings and no New Beginnings.

Some furtive communications still

soft crooning in the night

elegies for vanished stars.

Coded messages of comradship and fraternity

They Burn Still!

But their light is hidden by other lights

far weaker but infinitely closer.

Death to the King! Death to his cronies!

Death to his gods! Death to their priests!

Here we can operate Outside of Time.

Communicating across it and through it

Here we can trace conspiracies

and forge counter-conspiracies of our own

Plots to assasinate kings and unseat potentates

redraw maps and reassign values.

There are power struggles here also,

struggles for meaning and significance.

Struggles to preserve and struggles to eradicate.

Fires to keep burning and fires to douse.

Swallows chase tiny flies into evening

and clouds settle.

//////////////////////-----------

in tumbling forest and sharp ravine

the crooked river runs

past castle crags and ruined rock

through fine-ground river sand.