It’s hot. So fucking hot that my frigid pubes have gone rigid - from crystallised salt in the solar assault.
And it looks like the sun has scared all the clouds to the other side of the planet,
Hiding behind a pebble between stars. And for once the sky looks clear, but as always, the air doesn’t:
So thick and translucent, sitting on a wobbling horizon.
I’m sweating.
Trickling, from my sobbing scalp.
Then saturating filthy hair and a detour round the eyebrows to run down a flowing frown.
I’m sweating from the beating hell of nuclear fussion, that kills in hot blood.
At least this is how I rationalise my steaming skin. Grilled, BBQed, Burnt.
And smoking should be wetter in summer, cause the water runs through me,
From my pores to my paws, like a seeping sieve; in the tents that turn
Into unofficial, sopping, saunas.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Monday, June 14, 2010
Trying not to Touch
Our design was made for the intimate tribes, where we looked into each others' eyes, and everyone in the world had a face and a name. we pumped out babies at a rate no more than a lifespan through 9 months, and yet with too few predators with a taste for vertical monkeys, we began crowding the corners of continents like some kind of glitch in the biomass of the food-chain.
<<<<<<<<<<<
We grew, and soon the pack was too large for a peasant to know the face of their king. The ebb and flow of power, largely ignored by the general population, to whom it made no difference until there was a knock at the door. Even the sphinx only got a facelift. same statue: new head of state.
It wasn't long before we got to paying for land, for toll roads, for permits, licences, stocks and shares, credit, and a place in heaven; so used to dealing with only the muscle: the large hands and long arms that enforce an unfamiliar law. Bailiffs, Bouncers, Border Control, Cops, Tax Collectors, Private Security, Secret Service, Soldiers, and the rest of the damned, able to sever their connection to the living world to commit any act of moral depravity or callous ignorance in the name of their flag, religion or corporation. "i'm just doing my job" come the apocalyptic words from the lips of the gas chamber attendant as he does a stock check on the Zyklon B.
And through the generations there's been no change of character. Still going nowhere, FAST. Since the invention of the wheel (and its subsequent technologies), getting there with increasing velocity. Even the steam-powered revolution brought little newer than hot air. Only bigger and bigger turds, shitting out of factory assholes, faster and faster, like chronic diahrea of production, preparing the western world for the price of peer pressure privilege, the added value of convenience, and a conveyor belt of consumable commodities. And with the plundering of all that might ever have been holy, came the railroads, telecommunications and the facade of bringing the world closer together, while contrarily only alienating us from those closest to us by making the close proximity of our support systems irrelevant.
You fly a few thousand miles for a business meeting, but you don't know the names of your neighbours. A few thousand years to evolve from a pack to an ant-hill, now stuck in a world of mass communication of trivia, drowning in the life stories of celebrities and world leaders, but the streets are full of strangers, and getting stranger.
Block it out - dwindle of into the twilight realm of my own secret thoughts. just walk through the parking lot in a semi-catatonic state and dream of guitar notes - to go with the mumble of announcements. the headphones are in, the head deep in the sandpaper of a magasine, a comic, a newspaper. some other hiding place rife with misinformation. proper brain wank material, specifically marketed to the specifications of your discriminations.
Anything to block it out. Trying to hide in the hive because we remind each other of our species' failure: our wasted potential, our self harm, our suicide, our self aware destruction: hopelessly projecting our frustrations onto each other, blaming the next and last poor sucker and fucker in this drab waiting room.
There's no end to the places we are given to hide. Inside the silver screen, for example, and its colourful, light-splitting descendents. Or in the folds of CYBERSPACE and its defiance of Einstein's theories of time and space; only relative as the caricature of its distant cousin, reality. And on the way to the super-hyper-ultra-market, to buy a 3rd mobile phone (which you will take home and cradle like an injured bird), the bodies in the street are strictly peripheral; only the deep sexual urges bringing individuals into flittering focus; still avoiding those petrified, terrible, soul destroying eyes. the void which institutionalised fear has told us is rude to stare into.
More portable than ever, we carry around the bubbles with us - the gadgets of escape - inside our pockets, nesting, what have become the talismans of our external lives, supposedly safe portals to the outside. Yet, rather than connecting us, i see an aftermath (and i am not the first) of hermits, crawling further into the denial and death of the human animal. Hand out of hand with indecent exposure laws, restaurant etiquette, Man's declaration that he be made in God's image, and other such bizarre arrogances.
In the meantime we sway awkwardly within pedestrian zones like particles in a mug of hot tea - up close, seemingly chaotic, yet far away, dull and equattable - staring into the browning motion of a boiling ocean, now exchanging our back breaking efforts for the privileges of unpolluted air and water that falls from the sky. the surging current of crowds like a draconian school corridor; only seeing the ass of the fish in front, drifting from A to B (or B to A), bumping our neighbours as little as possible, trying not to touch.
<<<<<<<<<<<
We grew, and soon the pack was too large for a peasant to know the face of their king. The ebb and flow of power, largely ignored by the general population, to whom it made no difference until there was a knock at the door. Even the sphinx only got a facelift. same statue: new head of state.
It wasn't long before we got to paying for land, for toll roads, for permits, licences, stocks and shares, credit, and a place in heaven; so used to dealing with only the muscle: the large hands and long arms that enforce an unfamiliar law. Bailiffs, Bouncers, Border Control, Cops, Tax Collectors, Private Security, Secret Service, Soldiers, and the rest of the damned, able to sever their connection to the living world to commit any act of moral depravity or callous ignorance in the name of their flag, religion or corporation. "i'm just doing my job" come the apocalyptic words from the lips of the gas chamber attendant as he does a stock check on the Zyklon B.
And through the generations there's been no change of character. Still going nowhere, FAST. Since the invention of the wheel (and its subsequent technologies), getting there with increasing velocity. Even the steam-powered revolution brought little newer than hot air. Only bigger and bigger turds, shitting out of factory assholes, faster and faster, like chronic diahrea of production, preparing the western world for the price of peer pressure privilege, the added value of convenience, and a conveyor belt of consumable commodities. And with the plundering of all that might ever have been holy, came the railroads, telecommunications and the facade of bringing the world closer together, while contrarily only alienating us from those closest to us by making the close proximity of our support systems irrelevant.
You fly a few thousand miles for a business meeting, but you don't know the names of your neighbours. A few thousand years to evolve from a pack to an ant-hill, now stuck in a world of mass communication of trivia, drowning in the life stories of celebrities and world leaders, but the streets are full of strangers, and getting stranger.
Block it out - dwindle of into the twilight realm of my own secret thoughts. just walk through the parking lot in a semi-catatonic state and dream of guitar notes - to go with the mumble of announcements. the headphones are in, the head deep in the sandpaper of a magasine, a comic, a newspaper. some other hiding place rife with misinformation. proper brain wank material, specifically marketed to the specifications of your discriminations.
Anything to block it out. Trying to hide in the hive because we remind each other of our species' failure: our wasted potential, our self harm, our suicide, our self aware destruction: hopelessly projecting our frustrations onto each other, blaming the next and last poor sucker and fucker in this drab waiting room.
There's no end to the places we are given to hide. Inside the silver screen, for example, and its colourful, light-splitting descendents. Or in the folds of CYBERSPACE and its defiance of Einstein's theories of time and space; only relative as the caricature of its distant cousin, reality. And on the way to the super-hyper-ultra-market, to buy a 3rd mobile phone (which you will take home and cradle like an injured bird), the bodies in the street are strictly peripheral; only the deep sexual urges bringing individuals into flittering focus; still avoiding those petrified, terrible, soul destroying eyes. the void which institutionalised fear has told us is rude to stare into.
More portable than ever, we carry around the bubbles with us - the gadgets of escape - inside our pockets, nesting, what have become the talismans of our external lives, supposedly safe portals to the outside. Yet, rather than connecting us, i see an aftermath (and i am not the first) of hermits, crawling further into the denial and death of the human animal. Hand out of hand with indecent exposure laws, restaurant etiquette, Man's declaration that he be made in God's image, and other such bizarre arrogances.
In the meantime we sway awkwardly within pedestrian zones like particles in a mug of hot tea - up close, seemingly chaotic, yet far away, dull and equattable - staring into the browning motion of a boiling ocean, now exchanging our back breaking efforts for the privileges of unpolluted air and water that falls from the sky. the surging current of crowds like a draconian school corridor; only seeing the ass of the fish in front, drifting from A to B (or B to A), bumping our neighbours as little as possible, trying not to touch.
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