London, 3am, Saturday night.
En route, there were mutterings...
rumours of a bus service.
Irrational urges...
not waiting for a train
that would get me back sooner.
Fuck that.
Itâs night bus, 3am:
Ghostly, lunar, occluded,
red, mystery, oblong thing,
that only ever appears
when you leave the stop.
This⊠situation happened because of people.
I do everything because of people.
It is unbearable.
Brixton to Archway
requires change
at Oxford Street.
The morons bleat.
It is no home
for leftist intellectuals.
There was wreckage in the zone.
The bins had gone over again.
People were stumbling along the road
shouting at tarmac and sky.
The shop fronts glittered
empty gestures for people who,
when they bought things,
felt as powerful
as slaveowners did.
Only too dumb to locate the source of their guilt.
This is their world.
The adolescents
were pouring out
whatever residue of rebellion they had in them.
Discovering themselves, their limits,
the precise coordinates of their living deaths -
a state that mooches into life unannounced,
in the early to mid-30s.
But now, now, now,
they spew beautiful cocktail vomit across the pavements.
It's like Pollock had the courage,
like millions of others did,
to incinerate his talent
instead of monetising it.
This puking took guts.
This attempt to postpone the future
because the future is bad.
We all know it.
We all sense that this is the end.
Humanity's rope is stretched taut.
Thereâs no room to expand, or bend
so all thatâs left is this suffocating glitter -
excess, grotesque, ulcerated,
lacerated, nose-diving, tumescent,
jouissance.
It would drive many of them insane
like it drove me insane.
It would kill many of them stone dead
like it killed many of my friends.
This city, for some people is an exposure.
It leaves wires bare, raw, naked, eviscerated.
Nerve fuel only lasts so long.
A twisted leaf in autumn gets brittler
And snaps between the mycelium fingers
Of the chromium, knowledge phallohubs
in a state of infinite bailout
like a parasite devouring it's host.
Anti-psychedelic centres
of commerce, rotating spiked
graphics of reality.
Stalked by SuperStalins
and UberHitlers, their machines slice into the ground
like diamond-tipped knives
into living meat,
half-gangrenous, about to drop off the planet
As gravity ceases to bind us together
and we experience cultural, subatomic fragmentation.
We donât all make it through alive,
and the ones that do, only make it
like nails
in boards
sliding
sideways
towards
some edge
we sense like vertigo but canât see.
Imminent, impending catastrophe.
A couple, stumbling, scream abuse
London abuse.
Cocaine abuse.
"Cunt! You are a fucking cunt!â
âI fucking hate you, you fucking cunt!"
3. THE COLLECTORS: ARRIVING
Orange lights, rhythmic flashes
dart across this place, now an indoor / outdoor type scene.
Dawn is whispering its halitosis
over the dead filled council estates full of bad colour
incinerated by the rich
who doused their homes in their petroleum cladding
that made their period invisible
to the blood-money tyrants. The oligarchs, thieves,
and toffs whose society was indeed, âclassless.â
As classless as the Reich was Jewless.
As classless as the slave metal that fills our tips
and landfills â our killing fields.
This decorated, bile strewn farce of a land - the greatest place to be on Earth.
If youâre a blind, deaf, dumb, psychopathic moron.
Or youâve learned to smirk it all off with a wincing, ironic smile.
Your mouths are cash machines.
And youâve all learned how to twist that knife
into the hearts of your Rwandan, Congolese genocide slaves
keeping them just alive enough
to fill your empty veins with the drug of a latest gadget.
That vital illusion â
that what you buy
is what you own
is what youâve earned,
is what you deserve.
We deserve nothing
but suffering for our capitulations.
4. THE COLLECTORS: ARRIVED
The collectors had arrived,
like Cuban doctors in a warzone,
without fanfare,
without occasion,
to clean up this residuum.
Shattered, shattering, shitted, weeping lives.
Trapped in this whirlpool of daggers.
Silently, they sweep the edges off the passed-out,
the incapacitated, the living-dead, all monsters
using pavements as pillows,
cradling liquid remains
of the ethanol they hope doctors them
from the photographic evidence -
come the day of judgement.
They betrayed their university
beneath the everlasting sunshine
Of global capitalism.
The eyes that can never close
can never empty,
and can never blink...
This, the hell of the same.
Quantitative easing includes the victims
eased into genocide and torture.
Forget about it. Forget about it. Forget.
The bus is taking an age.
The collectors had arrived
to fill trucks with the landfill.
Bodybags carried off to suburbia,
to disintegrate into the plastic time
millennia⊠thatâs the irony of it.
The shite we throw away will outlive us.
And in our death will judge us.
Objects spring to life,
Containing every ounce of labour we tossed aside...
The mined, honed, crafted, worked on.
The art, the dreams shattered for money
which eats everything
now that weâre nearly dead.
The collectors had arrived
to cleanse this channel of
desperation, squalor and blood.
To doll it up to the nines like a sad old powdered whore
Preparing for another day of dead-eyed fucking.
The pointless scrambling
for things we pretend to own,
like the animals we own in cages,
or the victims of torture we own,
as use for chiaroscuro
to give us an illusion of an open sky.
The bus, after perhaps an hour, arrives.
I find my face wet with tears
I barely noticed
as I watched
this rhythm of the visible
becoming invisible.
The dead carried on the shoulders of stoics into vans.
The bins emptied and stood back on their feet.
And,
with a wipe of the hand,
another fucking day to withstand.
germansingergirl
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blakekathryn
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