Friday, May 25, 2018

'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.8

I heard him talking, I heard him say
He wasn’t gonna kill ya, he was just gonna fuck up your pretty face
~ Motels ‘Celia' 1979

May Morning II ~ Gabrielle Bakker

Mark doesn’t ask much from life and life is happy not to give him much in return. The daily slog to stay pretty much in the same position frustrates and infuriates him.
What’s the point when you get nothing in return for your labour beside food and shelter?
A man should be allowed to do his own thing, especially a young man.
Old hippy Joe’s speeches really get under Mark’s skin, not their content; which he believes are designed merely to entice the girls, but it’s the way they are delivered: as if the clave were a bunch of children who needed his fucking advice; as if he were a priest or some-such… as if he was the boss man; the alpha.
Everybody knows Daniel holds the reigns in this place, with the support of Ellie the doctor of course; and Joe is just the fucking cook.
And all these girls: they’re all like sisters to Mark, and even if they weren’t, how’re you gonna get laid when everybody knows everybody’s business; they’ll be looking for pledges before you can say ‘fuck me’…
And old Joe? they’re not like sisters to him are they Mark?
Mark knows he is not alone in his fears about Joe either; he knows the other guys agree but are too scared of Ellie to say anything.
And who’s to say how much truth is in their fears, both about Joe and of Ellie, how much of any rationale can be pivoted around the fulcrum of truth before the whole mechanism falls apart.
So, it’s up to him, Mark, to keep the old pervert on his toes.
He’d had Joe at the last speech in the kitchen, been on the verge of punching him on that stupid pointy nose of his.
It's a good thing Marty stepped in… a good thing for Joe anyway.
The witch, meanwhile, has been away for weeks now and everybody’s pretending it’s not an issue. Everybody whispering their theories on what happened? Why’d she leave? Where’d she go to?
Fuck her anyway. Not that he would. Fuck her? Not his type really; the face tattoos would put you off. Thanks, but no thanks; he’s not that desperate.








Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Stick your pageantry up your arse where it belongs


Hey! Where did everybody go?
These expensive and arguably elegant prisons are all you have to show for it?
These shiny cockroach cars, resembling more and more some sort of urban tank - air-condition and crash-cushioned; tech’ed up to the eyeballs, rear-view camera’d with guidelines for reverse parking.
Have we sacrificed all of our skills to the great god known variously as value for money*; progress; the new; the next level; the future… and more recently just plain la-la-la-lah! Buy me!?
Do we prostrate ourselves nightly before the TV-Eye, better described as The Voice of Authority; there to be fattened on a diet of sugar and shit; tomorrow’s lie is the same as today’s: Obey!?
Information is not the same as knowledge.
Information is in the hands of the powers that be, and still they want more, now they want our respect for their entrepreneurial skills; now they want us to love them; now they want us to suck their dicks.

*Surely a contradiction in terms

This was written on the occasion of the Marriage of a bastard prince to a mix-race princess. The princess's father was deemed a little too unsuitable (unwell) to attend. The princess was walked down the aisle by the cuckolded husband of the prince's mother, and all the peasants prostrated themselves in a mock orgy of adoration.

Monday, May 21, 2018

134 Years Ago...

... in an earlier incarnation of Capitalism:

Friday, May 18, 2018

'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.7

Shut up already,
Damn!
~ Prince ‘Housequake’ 1987

Aurora ~ Remedios Varo

“Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts!” chant the kids as they run the perimeter.
The entertainment has not abated for them over the weeks as some of them have started to disintegrate; bits of flesh and the occasional sinew-encrusted bone, an exploding eye which elicited equal parts horror and hilarity; occasionally one will lean into the fence causing a spectacular explosion of black blood and ochre bone. Gore-bits now litter the perimeter; still the zombies continue to stare with hungry yellow eyes (those who still have them), and they sure do smell bad: all grey and powdery, like when the dogs have been rolling in rot – the tell-tale perfume of Guy’s Plague.
Daniel stops to check the situation more often than he’d like; they’re not going away; he hopes they'll fall apart completely sooner rather than later since the battery-drain is starting to worry him; there’s been no sun for a week and the wind is barely enough to turn the blades on the windmill.
“Don’t get too close,” he shouts above the kids’ chanting, “or you’ll end up just like 'em.”
“Goat, goat, goat” they return, but without their usual vigour when they see that Daniel’s not in the mood. Giggling, they scatter to their various chores rather than endure a lecture.




Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Beauty Resides

CANTGETTHEREFROMHERE

m   e   d   u   l   l   a        o   b   l   o   n   g   a   t   a

Which is not to say that beauty resides only on the surface where the light is reflected in such an entertaining manner. While light is refracted by the surface it continues yet into the depths. And while all that resides there is often not illuminated by that particular element; that ray of energy that allows us to see; this is not necessarily a bad thing; yes, in primitive terms the darkness is a possible source of danger, but the same dangers lurk in the daytime, the night just brings them closer.
But what do we call beauty; what beautiful?
It seems we only perceive beauty in that which reaches the eye.
What of the ear?
The sound of the city at night, when heard from the perimeter.
The myth of silence.
The wind waving branches of tall trees.
And what of darkness?
The night does not rob us of our sight, it merely forces us to rely on the other senses in conjunction with the visual; it allows greater reign to the imagination; greater reign to the subconscious; the creative.
We must therefore conclude that beauty is not exclusive to the domains of light and surface, not owned by the glossy-surfaced primary-coloured celebrity, not just in the easily influenced eye of the beholder.