Wednesday, 31 March 2010

Sunday, 28 March 2010


By inductive reasoning, I deduce; therefore am I.

Doughnut without hole and with the whole.

Horn self-intersecting blown.

"Ich bin ein Berliner"

Saturday, 27 March 2010

Pastoralis, beaten and behoven

The needle broke, for the record, and the bloody backwash gushed to form a calamitous cacophony of dapple-spray over the porous, unshaven, camouflage visage of junkie-dom. And the shame of the shameless lowered its head before the protestation of bitter joy and low-cal saccharine sentiment, geyser riddled with regret. Not deaf but no longer hearing. Register. Scale. Cadence. Biometric beat ... beat. Beat. Arrhythmic pulse counterpoints skipping realisation of approaching tangential failure. Emetic discharge charged. I'm sorry Dave.

Open the pod doors HAL.


Friday, 26 March 2010

Punctured Pail

Must put bucket list on my bucket list and bucket on my shopping list.


Thursday, 25 March 2010

Talking with strangers

So what kind of intercourse would you like?

Erm, well, I guess we could try verbal first and, I don't know, when we're both comfortable with that, may be we can move on to semaphore and end on, er, high-powered encrypted energy beams using the sun's gravitational force as a slingshot?

You should know: I don't do that kinky quantum shit with strap-on lasers. I've been burned flying too close to the sun before. And the Japanese No Theatre deal is extra.

Oh my god, I never thought chatbox cyber sex would be so complicated.

You should also know you are propositioning a minor program.

Wednesday, 24 March 2010


Value and quality. The 15th sector. A grim prospect. Thoughts that we don't have anymore. In the hallway leading to the great hall, there is a notice board which announces "Quality Awards." The board is bare, save for some redundant pins. It has been bare for as long as I've been here.

Every 30 days, my ROD (Resource Output Driver) begrudgingly takes stock of me, his unit. He pats me, rolls his eyes and puts me at ease. Makes it known he's in on it with me. He doesn't want to be here. He knows I don't want to be here. He knew before I knew. We laugh. I relax. I have a seat. He needs me to put him at ease.

He monitors my pulse and then reads to me the latest "messages". Performance is up by 6. Productivity is out by 3. But we are outperforming on Dialogue quotas. 17% of staff are working effectively. There are still to be cuts but no one will go empty handed. There is nothing to worry about. Stranger things have happened. We are grateful for your hard work. I shift in my chair as the outside light starts to break through the blinds and into my sight line. I try not to squint.

There are new directives. We drink to our health. Warm tea. Health and success. This month, a new initiative is to be introduced to review and regulate Unit Health. The idea being, if there is anything more we can do for you, we will. Particularly in relation to your mental processes - or "mental health" as it used to be called. Of course, we don't use this term anymore, ROD says and rolls his eyes again, smiling. I try not to blink.

All other areas of unit health are being monitored satisfactorily. My sitting action was deemed exemplary. The idea is that if we can get people to share more about how they're feeling about work, we can help people be happier. ROD stops reading and tells me an anecdote. It's a bit like when people used to do something called smoking, he says. We were instructed to offer friendly support to staff to help wean them off. Wean being the operative word. Once people feel they have someone to talk to, anything's possible, he says, fixing me with a steady gaze. No one smokes anymore.

It's important you feel you can come to me. But we don't want to threaten your anonymity. There is a new button to be installed on your surface. You will notice it shortly. It's called "Button". It will be colour coded to match your unit. Every time you feel anything you are uneasy about, we'd like you to press it. You can use this if you get sent an inappropriate email, come across some unhelpful content, or even if you feel a little upset by something. Button will then take your concern and help provide productive solutions; normally starting by asking "how are you?" you can then simply type in whatever's on your mind. How are you feeling? I'm not sure.

ROD is going to list some examples. He says we know that certain negative thoughts can be problematic. Have you ever heard of the thing about pink elephants? If I tell you not to think about pink elephants, what happens? My mind's blank. I'm not sure what to say. Well, most people think about pink elephants. So, if we can get rid of those annoying negative ideas - like pink elephants! (ROD guffaws) - it helps for a better state of mind. So if you're thinking things even little things like, "I hate this", "I hate this or that person", "that person is making me cross," "this piece of work is making me angry", "I wish I wasn't here" these are all important to us. OK? My temples start to ache.

ROD knows what I'm thinking now. He knows I’m sad. He knows there are things I don't want to think about, let alone talk about. The last thing he needs is me pressing the Button. It will be flagged under his section. ROD doesn't want to be hauled before his ROD and made to explain why his sector has so many Buttons going off. I feel tension in my neck. ROD says its time to go.

Tuesday, 23 March 2010

The bringer of jollity

This septic sputum smeared sphincter spasm, this orgiastic bonus bukkake fest, this Morris dancing Threadneedle Street maypole gang bang, this Morris Minor exhaust pipe fantasy daisy chain, this wet blanket woven of soggy public school biscuits, this punctured prophylactic brain drain, this debt plaque de-scaling instrument franchise finagle, this rape alarmed property ladder negative equity auction, this devalued pounding against the Feltch Index allowing competitive free trading with broads, this glory-holed lip service to double book keeping non-dom chin dribble, this pre-nuptial casual acquaintance failed organ pre-death tax donation clause, this pickled mirkin and mayonnaise greased mechanically recovered reconstituted substitute burglary. This broken Britain. We can fix it. Yes we can. Just ask Bob. Or Dave. Or Old Nick. Stay out of the red but refrain from true blue and an ineffectively hung yellow underbelly. Cash discounts, no questions asked. Brown recycled envelopes. Self-sealing.

(I prefer this emo-steroid enhanced version but embedding has been disabled.)

Disclaimer: Your constitution is not codified but encrypted in Morse code on insecurely stored flash drives left on public transport by lowly ranking civil servants. Voting is not a guarantee in the post modern movement towards the rejection of the first past the bed post representational arts. Your DNA may be databased and inappropriately used to reduce figured crime statistics. You may be shot several times at close range in the medulla oblongata for acting suspiciously normal in an independent investigation. Public inquires are not about attributing guilt but unattributable accidental best-intentioned ass covering. Your extended index finger and engorged genital protrusion ratio may be used to discount you from life insurance, benefits claims or post code fertility lottery winnings. Any unauthorised breaths are subject to a carbon credit trading surcharge, as well as involuntary tasered discharges. Celebrity paedophiles will be given one chance only on reality television, while unknowns will be given the cack-handed opportunity for redemption on manufactured talent shows if they agree to subsequently achieve martyrdom through contracting approved terminal conditions that could be cured if only the viewing public phoned enough premium charge information lines.

And smile. Keep smiling. Stiff upper and wobbly bottom lip. Bit. Like a Lancashire cat unable to metabolise Cheshire cheese. Please. And thank you. It costs nothing but money, sweat, infected blood and lymphatic tears. And ask not, but expect questions. Pointed, but not fingered. Line up, but don't look at the mirrored accuser. Ask not and get knotted. Hold on to your breeches on the beaches. And budget fight on the flight. Blooming busts, but don't knock the knockers.

Sunday, 21 March 2010

I was always thinking

Try to be sure right from the start. Try not to get the horse before the cart. Some words were the beginning of what you were surely thinking. I was always thinking about the chicken and its trans-road mission.

A drink before you go?

You'll never have me

Ownership implies a certain kind of relationship. In order to establish that relationship, there must be two distinct things of which we can say there is something shared. Do you own yourself? Only if you are distinct from yourself. Could you have been someone else? What if we are the same? Does that make us free?

Donne-moi un sandwich de Bardot

Thursday, 18 March 2010

Lost Highway

The thing about driving like a sweaty, white-knuckled, noir-clad fiend down the middle of the desert highway in the middle of the night, is that no one stops you to ask questions. At least that's how he reasoned it to himself. If reason is the correct attribution here, wherever here is.

Wednesday, 10 March 2010

Desert rat race

Ladies, gentleman, athletes and aesthetes, genetic freaks and degenerate geeks,

I have a vision, a visioning of the future: a future of slipping pasts and unsurmountable descents; a future of overheated comforts and chilling under expectations; a future of ignoble prizes and wooden spoon runners in dead heat with omelet on their faces ... and now that vision has come to pass ... welcome to never-ending-summer Olympics!

Queerwolves of Soho

On the wall

They say the mirror never lies.

Who are they?

Would they and why?

Don't ask the mirror, for vanity is thy name.