likeDisneyland

"I saw the hideous phantasm of a man stretched out"

2011-04-23T20:16:00.007+01:00

"Frightful must it be, for supremely frightful would be the effect of any human endeavor to mock the stupendous mechanism of the Creator of the world."

Taken from Mary Shelley’s Author’s Introduction to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein

Love Me Not When I Look

2011-02-22T14:05:00.009Z

http://www.mocalondon.co.uk/

http://www.fadwebsite.com/2011/02/21/alana-lakelove-me-not-when-i-look-friday-25th-of-february-630-830-pm/

http://www.phototrampobject.blogspot.com/

2011-01-29T18:49:00.002Z

Stigmata

2010-09-23T14:02:00.005+01:00

For the Love of Bastet

2010-09-19T19:13:00.003+01:00

They were wearing headsets.

2010-06-01T06:40:00.003+01:00

They were wearing headsets, they arrived at dawn, they erected the crosses that stand on my lawn. They searched the rafters for guns and ammunition as they recited the bible and outlined their mission. “The manifesto” they screamed, “is broadcast live” so there is no need to form a crowd outside.

They shackled the young, they shackled the old, we shuffled our feet and wept in the cold. They marched us to the sound of cracking bones, warping metal and mobile phones. The Flag flew high and we all saluted, our new boss is here, undisputed.

The rumble of trucks sang into the black as I curled in a ball and prayed at the back and I remembered watching the challenger crash and fall to earth in flames and ash and some fell at a crossroads and we began to slow so they started to punish us blow by blow until each head was scarlet and bruising black and one girl stumbled and we were pushed to go back till she was trampled beneath us and lay in the sun but we carried on walking for fear of the gun.

I didn’t say anything I was afraid. We dare not speak in the final parade no singing in the line as we followed in sync we looked straight ahead and tried not to think but I thought of the sea and I longed for the sand and I dreamt of your voice and I ached for your hand to lift me up each time I stumbled as the black smoke rose and the trucks still rumbled.

There was nothing now just the road all planned out and we walked forever and I began to doubt the life I’d led before they came so safe so warm so blank so tame. Like wolves we tread into the fields and in naked envy of what the river feels as it defies command and snakes away regardless of what kings and madmen say.

The sky is toxic the ground decayed the special announcement has been delayed so nobody was sure were to go we just fixed our gaze on the dirt below.

Will the real UK Citizen please stand up?

2010-06-01T06:31:00.002+01:00

Is it getting harder to be you everyday? Can’t take the workouts or the dressing downs, the slow resentful meals in stylish rooms in expensive, now depreciating homes? Mr and Mrs B.N.P, C.J.D, O.C.D the silent white minority, who are you? Are you terror struck in commuter town, or fearing the black face in the white hoody bluetoothing broken dreams via mobile data streams with no time to look where he is going? Who is tending your bloodstained flag that once screamed Empire but now whispers “spare change please” to the iPoded and zoned out passers by; a rag wrenched up by a threadbare monarchy to a lukewarm reception, a tired crowd, vaguely nostalgic, twitchy and bored?

Are you the Khakis hordes on their way to purchase LCD wide screens and potter vacantly through miles of car parking and bright Muzak convenience? Who is your team? Who do you support? Are your dreams in full colour featuring lip gloss sticky girls from the pages of the Sunday Sport spread out and sensual, almost too young, almost nude? Almost yours, but not really there. Do you rejoice in your St Cheryl X factor morality knowing that your X tube secrets could catch up with you - who’s that dogging in Grantham serenaded by a wet and miserable Sunday evening, just another way to spice things up and now you can’t look her in the eyes.

Where is your truth? It’s written in a language you won’t recognise, talked about in rooms you don’t know and you’ll never have access to, it is mahogany panelled, suited and titled, a secret ceremony of boys club control. Do you sit sweating in the dark waiting for a grimy hand to break your window locks, whilst the white-collar criminal has your password, confidence and handshake? Are you stopped and searched, tagged and DNA tested, young, black and suspect? Are you that loathsome single mum, benefits cheat, immigrant, all gold teeth and grabbing hands scourge of the Daily Mail outraged, we fought the war, we pay our taxes! Are you dreadlocked and dropped out, drugged up and dead-eyed, angry and on the frontline of a culture war you’ll never win; this is not your society, you can’t afford a voice Swampy. This is your Nation, humane, but confused, ailing but growing. Centre of an old world, a relic, broke, rebranding and channel changing, afraid but with eyes fixed on the future.

Original Punks.

2010-03-24T19:16:00.003Z

I found these gorgeous images of some early Eighties punks from the squat scene posted in a Facebook squating group. They are obviously just snap shots, taken for the amusement of the people involved but they are so well composed and striking I'm surprised they haven't been published.

Genesis P.Orridge tells it like it is.

2009-11-30T23:59:00.002Z

Looking and Waiting.

2009-10-09T14:32:00.013+01:00

Elements for a final solution.

2009-10-09T14:30:00.005+01:00

'When you don't know what you want, you have to attach yourself to someone who does'. Baudrillard

Regency. Industry.

2009-10-09T14:22:00.005+01:00

Slovakian Homes.

2009-10-09T14:06:00.018+01:00

Being invited to hang with the Principal of the village and getting to party with the gypsies was a highlight of the trip, the interiors spoke about a million different personal ideologies and a life of celebration and family.

Sudince -

2009-10-09T14:00:00.011+01:00

Strong features and curious minds

2009-10-09T13:57:00.009+01:00

Dudince - supermarket

2009-10-09T13:54:00.004+01:00

Bratislava.

2009-10-09T13:52:00.003+01:00

The Graffiti is about Love which puts a pleasingly melancholic taint on this industrial suburb.

YOU KNOW YOU ARE IN SLOVAKIA WHEN A GUY GIVES YOU A RIDE IN EXCHANGE FOR SCRAP IRON

2009-10-09T13:26:00.009+01:00

When somebody says to you “I have three houses, come visit me” it’s usually a good idea to consider the offer. If that somebody has three houses in a remote region of a former communist state it is a definite yes. You may have to shit in an outhouse, eat three times your body weight in cheese and be ultimately be deleted from Facebook by your (enthusiastic) but ineffably insane host, but it’ll assuredly be a tit tweaking, face slap of an adventure. Slovakia is the perfect idyll for me; alternately an innocent maiden beckoning you through natural orchards for flushed cheeked frolicking and a boob-tubed trashy whore of mish mashed cultural detritus who wants to bang you to a soundtrack of 80s ballads. Incidentally - it’s not that Slovakia is stuck in the 80s, it’s not, it just politely refuses to acknowledge the proceeding decades. That suits me fine. So shoulder pads please lets have a Slovakian adventure:

Kings of Dalston

2009-08-11T03:46:00.003+01:00

oh btw -LONDON LITERARY FESTIVAL - WE KILLED IT.

2009-08-11T03:32:00.004+01:00

Big scary crowd of onlookers.
Live art illustration of the recital:
I AM THE MAINFRAME live.

Weird Old Warwick.

2009-08-11T02:24:00.010+01:00

Don't believe that the English are boring, that we don't have a shamanic tradition, that we aren't able throw together an awe inspiring ritual or two. Bubbling beneath the wishy washy Church of England surface there is a vivid world of pageantry, frenzied pagan frivolity and boundless eccentricity. We shot some camera phone snaps during Warwick Folk Festival to share with you. There was even a twelve foot Borg in medieval attire - seriously, we export WTF from this country.

Soapbox Skits 1

2009-08-11T01:46:00.012+01:00

Mr Cognitive Dissonance.

Let me introduce Mr Cognitive Dissonance, there he is, “Ta Da” in his party hat, eating his happy meal, running in his hamster wheel, enjoying three different types of cheese, singing along to his Bruce Springsteen C.Ds, contemplating a wide range of flat screen T.Vs...Perpetually standing in line at the bank, or filling up his tank, taking too long to indicate and too fast to ejaculate, that is, when he isn’t too anxious to penetrate. He buys the Sun and the Sport, The Sun and The Sport and the sun and moon and the stars don’t bother him a bit.

He likes vivid colours and gasoline and supports his hometown football team and punches first if he needs too. Most of the time he won't listen and he doesn't understand and doesn't bother asking if he can demand. It is his duty not to care and he pretends his emotion isn't there until it ulcerates to be aggravated by spicy food and too much lager. His hands are rough and his voice is deep and it takes him a long time to get to sleep, he works hard and he is getting fat and when he looks in the mirror he isn't sure what he is looking at.

Buzzing on additives and headlines his heart is continually pumping at terror threat level red and he is so afraid of dying; he can’t wait to be dead.

Untitled Skit.

I want my freedom, not my Mc Freedom, not this TV state, some blokes off Holly Oaks took coke and now it’s in all the tabloids joke of a reality. I real control, not slavery or dole, to be a human unit brought or sold, constantly harassed and told what to do by corporate liars. I want action and compassion, not footballers wives and fashion, pages and pages of diet tips to slim my hips when we can’t scrap together enough for a bag of chips anyway.

Will we ever be slim or stupid enough for our media?

No.

I want to enjoy my life away from a CCTV lens, with real friends not just Facebook updates and virtual mates and Twittering twatery. I want food that is less expensive because it isn’t so adulterated it is going to give me cancer and a world free from pricks in the town centre who answer everything with “what the fuck you looking at” or "you don't know me though". I don’t need Direct Line insurance and it tests my endurance to be quizzed in the street again and again about bargain prices on mobile phone deals, for an iPhone that some pikey undoubtably steals five minutes later.

I want sentiment not soundbytes, politicians with a pulse and maybe even a soul that can relate to my state as more than a concept or statistic or am I being unrealistic to expect these people to care.

Yeah?

Yeah.

Flex.

2009-08-06T18:33:00.007+01:00

Doorways and Windows.

2009-07-24T11:55:00.001+01:00

Vivian Volta is electric.

2009-07-21T21:57:00.010+01:00

The Macbeth, 26/06 - It was the day after Michael Jackson died. The mood was muted and our expectations low. We had no clear idea about what Vivian Volta was and we were undoubtedly preoccupied. We were not expecting to be awestruck, pinned against the wall by brilliance or blown away…but we were!

Vivian transfixed us with his epic soundscape opening, impassioned piano and squealing guitar. We knew immediately that this was a unique musical experience and we should keep our eyes pinned on the stage. The songs were deliciously idiosyncratic, weird and sprawling, strange sounds that come armed with lyrics promising poison and paradise. Holy fuck, we thought, people will soon be talking about being at ‘little’ shows like this. We better get an interview:

Q: When we saw you perform you started your set hidden behind a piano, why were you hiding?

The noises, I didn't want to disturb and then some people started moaning, you don't apply blush in public.

Q: Just how many instruments can you play and why did you start?

Because I was seriously bored with the music available & rather upset that this generation has nothing to show or say that goes beyond retro. It's all about blatantly ripping off the past, please where is the progression, this is not creationism, its art, its music, its self-expression and we're living now and not in the 60s, 80s or 90s. If you don't like their music, make your own.

Q:Who is Blood and Blue (a track on Vivian's My Space) written for?

I'd rather not say, I would love to, but I can't. But what i can tell you is that starvation and insomnia can make you sensationally productive.

Q: What makes a perfect album?

Write a song that is 37 minutes long which can be broken down into 9 different chapters. If you can listen to it in one go without pausing, stopping or BORING.

Q:What kind of fan would you like to have?

A crazy stalker, gifted, obsessive and dedicated.

Q: What's more important, emotion or showmanship?

They kind of go together, dont they?
I would say that empty showmanship is far more enjoyable than boring emotions.

UPCOMING GIGS

Volta online

1st of August > Bangers & Mash @ 93 Feet East
12th of August > The Last Days Of Decadence
22nd of August > Nuke Them All @ The Old Blue Last
27th of August > Vibe Bar

Isolated exotica.

2009-07-13T17:42:00.000+01:00

Crude Poems I

2009-07-13T17:31:00.003+01:00

Leather chaps, cellulite,

Friday nite is stripper nite,

She calls herself Dyna Might,

And looks alright in a tinted light.

She straddles John,

In a Primark thong,

and gets her dirty groove thing on,

Nobody mentions the elastics gone,

And from where he’s sat there’s a bit of a pong.

With absent eyes and Marlboro breath,

She tries to shimmy him to death,

Her popped balloon bazooms batter his bald head –

Till we give her a fiver to fuck off instead.

Specimen.

2009-07-13T17:30:00.002+01:00

Hackney is...

2009-07-13T17:19:00.009+01:00

Creepy.

Varied.
Still creepy.
Educated.
Decorative.

The Singularity.

2009-07-13T17:17:00.006+01:00

This is the time. This is the time expectant. This is our time. When our DNA is unencrypted and the data uploaded to mainframes, recoded by super computers in super white, lined against the white tiled walls of hidden laboratories beneath parched white desert plains. This is the time, this is the point at which the future fractures, when the momentum of evolution hits light speed and jolts us into realms unknown with tear moist eyes and palms outstretched to the sun like hieroglyphs of Re. The mystics and the physicists all share the same vacant stare as they wait at the gates while dimensions tear and reveal the sacred geometry. Naked. The future is pregnant with beauty.

A new aeon with silicon eyes and our blood, it is time to evolve. Fire the supercollider into the eyes of angels and watch them flee for the stars, wings singed and flapping frantically, clawed feet scrambling from the cold marble of ignorant faith on which they once sat proudly. Fire the supercollider into my heart and fuse the divine directly to my mortal flesh, tattooing my beating heart with the unheard names of the ancients. Future cities branch out into the stars, human hands clasp around entire galaxies, without fear, without poverty, with tenderness and hope. There is light in our eyes. We need no answer other than a love that is unspoken but unbreakable, the kingdom is ours and always was. I stand one of many, head tilted to the sky waiting for the dreams to loose. Let them loose.

Everything is new, brand new, but not branded. No conflict. No conflict, just knowledge and calm, this is the time, this is the time of ascension. In the streets they drop their grocery bags and let the contents scatter, the traffic screeches to a dumbfounded idling stop. The silver thread of infinity strains and suddenly it is snapping, no more linear time!

Ghost skyscrapers mark out the sky and point to way to new citadels, this is the time. Now jump through each wave of the past a confident traveller guided by the flashing certainty of our bold new reality. This is the time of the singularity.

Disembodied Lovers.

2009-07-06T11:57:00.003+01:00

Seven year old girl's bedroom. Leicester.

"Heat wave alert increases"

2009-07-06T11:47:00.010+01:00

Every now and then.

2009-07-01T16:55:00.003+01:00

'Where To?' at the London Literature Festival 2009.

2009-06-30T21:35:00.006+01:00

I'll be making an appearance and reciting my poetry live at this FREE spoken word and music event at the prestigious Southbank Centre. The line-up is inspiringly varied, check the Facebook event and add yourself here:

COME TO THIS

The BBC vs John Hill.

2009-06-30T18:35:00.007+01:00

This article caught my attention today and I have to comment:

The John Hill story

A man called John Hill has made a documentary presenting what he believes is the truth behind the 7/7 bombings in London. I do not want to debate whether what he says is true or false. I do however want to defend his right to say it and question the rationale behind the BBC approaching him in the way that they did.

“You have made a film that is damaging trust in the British Government…” - Mike Rudin BBC

Why are the BBC door-stepping people for being critical of the government? If this man is simply a misguided crackpot, a crazed “conspiracy theorist” who is way off the mark why should anybody be worried about his 7/7 documentary (it is certainly not the first to be released on this topic). Why should he not be allowed to peacefully exercise his right to free speech and then have his message scrutinized by the critical thinking of the public who view the documentary?

If what he says is easily debunked then it will be rightfully ignored, if there is as much overwhelming evidence to support the official version of 7/7 events as BBC reporter Mike Rudin states then surely most intelligent people will laugh his work off as demented fantasy. The BBC are not certain you’ll be smart enough to make up your own mind however, so rather than deny this supposed nut job the oxygen of publicity they pursued and harassed him on national television, complete with spooky soundtrack.

Interestingly, not only is the lunatic conspiracy theorist behind '7/7 Ripple Effect' being named and shamed in our media, he is now facing extradition for sending his video to people related to the criminal investigation of 7/7. He is charged with perverting the course of justice...How? By sending a video of “conspiracy theory” rubbish? – this is an odd scenario isn’t it. The crackpot who must be silenced and publicly denounced.

Should our media harass an individual for presenting material that questions the political establishment? Is it not our duty as citizens to keep our minds open and enquiring to detect hypocrisy, deceit and betrayal by the people we elect to represent our interests. If anybody who asks such questions (popular or not) is to be bullied into silence or if those who question logical gaps in the government's actions or statements are to be flippantly branded “conspiracy theorists” we have a problem with our democracy.

The truth is that more and more of my intelligent friends are questioning the actions of our government and they are not basement dwelling loons, they are people with serious careers who have the respect of their peers. We can’t all be crazed conspiracy theorists, we can’t all be making the same mistakes and seeing inconsistencies when there are none. So maybe that is why these documentaries suddenly seem so dangerous to our leaders. They know the truth will out.

Royal Academy Schools Show 2009

2009-06-29T21:23:00.006+01:00

You don't think you're playing but you are.

2009-06-28T02:47:00.001+01:00

Mass production/Mass seduction.

2009-06-28T02:32:00.003+01:00

The building looms, it is boxlike, rigid, the structure is reassuring and bland. The supermarket dominates the landscape, not so much with size but by its uniformity. The surrounding urban expanse is submissive in its chaotic uncertainty; the tower blocks nearby talk in a plethora of voices about lives and priorities unknown, indistinct. The tarmac plains of the car park define a place of singular and dedicated thought. A triumphantly illuminated corporate logo makes silent but confident promises about the world within. I am funnelled through taxis and full, swaggering trolleys to the white and obediently swooshing automatic doors.

Everything important happens in that initial explosion of perception; the eyes, nose, ears assaulted, caressed, soothed, enticed. The colours are bold, supernatural, the muted tones of nature misplaced by the fantastical, heightened and artificial. Art-i-ficial. Man Made. Brilliance. Mountains of sale produce compete for my attention, banks of confectionary swoop down and dazzle to my right. The tills buzz and beep encouragingly, translating the digital and mediating the ritual of purchase. The climax. I don’t want to think about the tills just yet. The odour is unreal, by this I mean literally unreal. Fresh bread isn’t really baking; biochemists blend together chemical perfumes to create the illusion that it is, nor is coffee being ground, the real coffee is sealed up in a vacuum beyond corruption. The air is full of delicious fantasy, scents pumped in to cause arousal, a calculated attempt to seduce the senses into steering my desires. Faint strains of music can be heard above the low and oddly reverent murmur of the other consumers; a pleasant voice is singing something between tannoy announcements. I’m not hurried. The rhythm is aquatic, ebbing and flowing. The frenetic movements of young mothers and their children are balanced by the stoicism of the slower and older shopper. There is a homeostasis in effect, a fragile, but perfect harmony of movement.

On the surface everything is clean. Food can’t happen in chaos, even apples are isolated by a bubble of plastic; people contaminate, they touch things and they spoil. The fresh produce aisles are perpetual ripeness, purity, I never have to experience decay, or death, total stasis; the food no longer conforms to the effects of time. Animals are packaged in parts, divorced from the whole in a pleasing abstraction. The canned goods are just words. Logos and pictures replace the offensive reality, ideas and representations of food are incorruptible, the perfect Hegemony. I’m told what is inside each convenient cylinder; I’ve got the brands I like and I know that they know what they are doing. I’m cruising typefaces and illustrations of experience. On mass. They don’t grow. I couldn’t make them happen. I trust them. I’m not alone. Hundreds of us swarm stunned in the aisles, grabbing something for themselves from the rows and rows of repetitious, shining, brazen labels. I am a voyeur, attracted to the contents of the other people’s shopping trolleys; fascinated by the type and quantity of food that is being selected. I am myself enthralled by the allure of the produce, but my neurotic nature reminds me of all the things I perhaps shouldn’t consume. The supersweet, the iced and additive laden, the oily. I live vicariously through those sensual shoppers who give in to the power of such delights. To watch them stack in piles of the forbidden and most instantly gratifying goods; is to witness the actualisation of the most rewarding supermarket experience; consumption as orgiastic indulgence. Never say no. I observe the dangerous ease with which appetites are provoked then quelled; it happens here and few other places in our modern life. Supermarket aspirations are simple and attainable; every facet of the experience and environment is fashioned for human need to be sated. If there is a transcendence it is the revelation of the cake counter, the secret ecstasy of being a happier person because you can buy the things you want, you are finally in control. As I idle past them the chill cabinets whirr ghoulishly into life.

Somebody nudges a bottle from the shelf and it smashes upon the hard tiled floor; ketchup bleeds across the ground in a thick incriminating red puddle. Shop assistants appear from nowhere with yellow caution signs and buckets, it is like watching the body heal itself. I want to pity them, in their matching tunics with their matching expressions of vacant concern, but I can’t. They are perfectly in tune with the environment; I have never had such a clear role in my existence. I want to pity, but instead I feel a fleeting but powerful envy. I understand at that moment that this building is ALL about control, about taking the world and crafting it to our collective will. It is a guilty truth that we crave that disassociation, the process that turns food into commodity and people into employees. This autonomy over our environment makes some of us profoundly uneasy. We’d perhaps prefer to deny responsibility for the creation of our convenient, safe and clean lives. This refusal to accept our new reality pushes us into a schizoid state of self-loathing, a belief that real life goes on somewhere else, because this life is lacking tangible danger or mystery. Here in the supermarket IS the potential for Nirvana just as you’d seek on the mountain top; only it comes with a more obvious price tag. Perception is the key.

With a full basket I edge toward the till. I think about leaving. The syrupy heavy feeling you get when you try to escape in a nightmare; that is the sensation that pervades as I make the purchase. Hands won’t work. The queue coughs and grumbles behind me. I’m wholly intoxicated by the odours, the bleaching light, the bleeps and steady hum of the supermarket. My wallet comes apart in my hand, fumbling, I shower a raffle of receipts. I can’t abandon the detritus of the impulse purchaser, the nostalgic literature of a previous consumer journeys; I have to snatch them all back up. Find plastic. The checkout girl eyes me, beautifully bored in a tight, bright uniform. She has no need to rush me; we are both stupefied, her thoughts happen somewhere beyond that electronic tone. My thoughts are in the white spaces between our stunted dialogue; we are working to our own time frame. I extend the card. She swipes. The conveyor belt stutters the next customers produce along, bottles and packets tumble and are righted. I lift my bags and head toward the exit, the handles cut satisfyingly into my flesh. The pain is atonement.

LOVE IS ALL.

2009-06-26T04:18:00.001+01:00

Clifford Chance exhibition - Canary Wharf.

2009-06-26T01:28:00.014+01:00

Exhibiting artists: Kerry Andrews, Annie Attridge, Roberto Ekholm, Rotimi Fani-kayode, Lucia King, Alana Lake, Fayann Smith and Stuart Mayes. In addition to our framed work we scattered the prostitute calling card we made all over this impeccable corporate space and watched as people slipped them into their bags.

Serious Business

The Siren.

2009-06-24T23:13:00.002+01:00

Book of the Watchers.

2009-06-22T21:27:00.004+01:00

Rank and File.

2009-06-22T17:21:00.004+01:00

THE POWER THE GLORY

2009-06-22T17:03:00.002+01:00

Sigil.

2009-06-22T15:24:00.002+01:00

SHE'S GOT POTENTIAL.

2009-06-22T02:17:00.001+01:00

Original found 80s amateur soft-core snapshots, off a market stall, South London.

Too much make-up. She mumbles as her hands twist slowly in her lap. She is Aways On Time and very directional. “and turn”. This is the shot. Ford Cortina, faux tan leather interior, radio chart rundown, sweat, grease, blood spots. She’s up on the balcony smiling down to you - then she is the 40 foot wide grin on a billboard, her glossy lips don’t complain and they won’t ask for a second helping. Always in the distance. “Yes, they looked at your portfolio” – not sure whether to put it straight in the bin or on the notice board for a laugh. Expectant eyes, his hands are her loving restraints, I’m crying in the night did I let you down again. There she is, laughing this time – a little bit older and who’s that in the background? “Can you keep your head still love, don’t smile like that it makes your eyes wrinkle” A moment of grotesque clarity that cannot be made sweet. Look at her arch upwards, a natural, big full breasts. He still thinks I’m a good girl. I am a good girl aren’t I? I want to grab her by the hair and pull her down, force her to take it. “Could you lift up your arm and toss back your hair”. I keep looking at her, someone else’s daughter and wondering if this is right. She’s asking if I can open the window, she’s not my problem, don’t want her number anyway she’s just a slag. It’s not right, its ok, she’s got potential.

I AM THE MAINFRAME

2009-06-22T01:47:00.001+01:00

I am the Network; I am more than a billion minds converged at once, in starburst brilliance, information realised. I witness everything in high definition, super sharp satellite vision. I see all. My thoughts instantaneously animate plasma screen fictions across the universe in hyperreal colour. My dreams stream in real time, translated into a thousand languages, beamed live to the collective consciousness in characters bolder than billboard and illustrated in lazer beam drawn across the sky itself. My emotion could blow the grid in Mexico City; my heartbeat is sponsored by accurist. This new body is incorruptible; this new body was built not born. I exist in a state of perpetual anaesthesia, I feel no pain and I will never know disease – this flesh is beyond the whim of nature or simple evolution. My face is the perfect product, a logotype for the ultimate human form, a testament to the new beauty, symmetrical, profound and sublime. Through bold mathematics I became the icon, and through chemistry I become the demi-god, never aging, a composite ideal hermetically preserved. When I travel I move at beyond light speed and I can bend time to invoke all potentialities; I exist simultaneously in every dimension, a sub atomic voyeur, tripping through quarks and super strings. I cum in binary, hooked up to the divine switch shaking my titanium bones with primal intensity. I understand the secrets encoded in the first moments of reality and I can feel infinity arch magnificent into the cosmos. I look just like you, but you won’t recognise me, I look just like you, but I’m different inside. I’m still on the factory floor in Hong Kong, I’m still waiting to meet you. You don’t know me yet, but you will, I am coded in your DNA, I awoke with the Aztecs, Opened my eyes on the Roman road to conquest, began to dream with the renaissance. I am your future, rebooted, eternal self.

THE FEMALE ENCLOSURE (What she thought she wanted)

2009-06-22T01:15:00.001+01:00

THE GENTLEMAN.

2009-06-22T00:16:00.004+01:00

THE GAMESHOW: EVERYBODY IS A CONTESTANT BUT IS ANYBODY WINNING?

2009-06-21T20:32:00.002+01:00

Dark times in the compound: the converts wait in silence, the bad news sinks in, the messiah was a fake. Dark times on the street corner, hustlers wait in the cold to jump on the messengers, the messengers have chased the jesters from the court, the king has deserted and the kingdom is starting to crumble.

The same shows run on every screen, volume muted, a bland parade of human fear and greed; the Gameshow that never ends. The prizes are all gone, just the doughy faced, puffy eyed contestants remain, dreaming of easy money and the glow of transient celebrity. Nobody wants to be here. Everybody is watching the exit, waiting for God, the devil, anything. Anything other than this, the grey dormancy of a motorway snaking to nothing, the screaming neon that promises things that cannot be sold, the words that fall hollow but with enough weight to bruise.

This city is now fuller than ever but there is no heart, just a relentless pulse. What can you believe in now, 6^th generation consumer, child of Nietzsche and Wal-Mart, watching CNN and sweating in the night, two World Wars later and our tears could fill a reservoir, our dreams make the atom split. Truce?