Tag Archive: prose

::::No Vacancy::::




Sliced into cross sections
the meat of daily existence can
be tasted with greater intensity
– specific moments, once fleeting,
can be isolated and examined in greater detail.
It is only through such clarity
that the pattern of flavours,
meaningfully encoded and rich
in information, can truly be discerned.

Once the pattern is sampled it can be reproduced
and transmitted across greater distances that is possible
with traditional methods.

This decoupling of experiences from individual sensorium
and neural complexes
when combined with the multiplicity of consciousness
represents the most radical recapitulation of ontological reality
ever devised.

Freed from a reliance on meat constructs
these fragments of experiential time
are free to interact with each other and evolve
according to any emergent criteria which may manifest within
the morphology of this continuity.

::::strange loop #256::::

Serotonin and oxytocin inhibitors were a rare commodity and mart1n had a real pressing need; heartbroken and borderline psychotic, if he didn’t taper his brain chemistry with something soon he saw great violence in his near future. That would mean another invasive evaluation and state sanctioned pharmaceuticals again.

His attempts to have his nervous system declared a sovereign nation in order to procure diplomatic immunity for his noostropic proclivities had thus far met with stern rejection from the bodies which govern such matters. This left the black market – a libertarian criminal diaspora of free thinkers, biohackers and professional lunatics. Dealing with this loose cabal of raconteurs did not come without affect; a Kafkaesque lewis carol funhouse of synchronicity and high weirdness.

Navigating the tides of such an entity required a finely tuned compass and an attention to detail that mart1n found tedious.

The telecommuter makes things with his hands – tiny models made from matchsticks stuck together with superglue. It is very delicate work undertaken with a magnifying glass and tweezers.

Whilst he works he listens to a radio tuned halfway between this side and that side and hums off Beatles songs under his breath – achieving a trance like state essential for his work..


Love is too much a black box
– fragments surge in and out again, changed, but
the alchemy which acts upon them cannot be known
unless the possessor of the box gently teases apart its mechanism
to expose their gaze to his own insides
– to see how and why they light up and throb to his lover’s touch
– what ignites in thought and sensation,
what constructs are born?
Unique to her stimulus
projected forward hand in hand to create a world just for them, with its own physics
and theoretical foundation upon which their architecture is built and cause and effect
is discernible only to them, are only for them
to explore with touch and caresses and words and breath.

::::magnetic lullaby::::

Was saving this for Oot Yir Face on Monday but alas the evening has been swallowed by the memory hole.


couldn’t this be the place
oh pretty please
so comfy and pliable
like a jobseeker’s lullaby.

Cue the recordings, like bird tracks in crisp snow,
different patterns for different species. What
benedictions will be muttered in the transhuman
slipstream? A call for a return to good old fashion
values like racism and homophobia. Regular
beatings for sexual deviants and those with
artistic inclinations.
String them queers up
and let them cum in their underwear
when their necks snap.
Let their corpses decompose on our living room walls.

We have become too distant from ourselves. Our
Mammilian essence. Too tied up in gordian knots
of selfimposed constriction. It brings them
small essential comforts.

Exit ::: A free e-book from OOT YIR FACE.

So, I do this spoken word thing every Monday called OOT YIR FACE. As the night has developed and become more popular I’ve been getting less mic time. This is both good and bad. Good that the night is getting popular, bad that I keep coming up with sets that are far longer than they need be. Below is everything I prepared for the Monday just gone for your viewing pleasure.

Widget takes a little time to load so be warned.

::::breathing fumes::::

the city doesn’t hum, it creaks and moans. Glasgow has real old bones polished up real good
but that doesn’t mean you can’t smell it. On the underground the smell condenses – almost pure vapours.
Going around and around the circle line feels like
a time machine.


You find yourself in synch with the blinking lights; crossing lanes with a rare kind of precision. Pistons and feet in fiendish conjunction.


Couldn’t quite make it out – the light destroyed all vision;
only fragments of millimetre wave to make sense with.

On the second floor of the Mitchell library, in the male toilets outside the special collection room, above the urinals, there is a hole. He couldn’t help but notice. Couldn’t help but put his hand up into this cavity, like it was the most natural thing in the world. As natural as the fact that such a dark hole was in need of a secret.

But when he put his hand into the recess and felt about there was only lack.

Nothing. Just chipboard and wooden struts.

Long after he finished pissing he stood there, staring into that void. Just couldn’t fathom this absence. Eventually there was nothing to do but walk away
but even then this absence stayed, felt as if a cavity had opened up inside him, swallowing something vital.

The next day he came back.

::::Navigating the Meat::extract::::

So I’m writing this novella where psychogeography, glasgow, biography and (excuse the cliche) cyberspace are blended into a heady brew of literature. Or something. As I go I will be posting rough extracts on EITHER/OR/BORED for your viewing pleasure.


This black foul liquid which passes for substinance wouldn’t past muster in an Orwellian horrorshow. Churns like a polluted ocean guts and organ meat, sickly grey slivers of liver swimming in gravy so thin even coco chanal would vomit into her jimmy choo handbag at the sight.

This was a mistake.

Chlorine catches in the back of the throat and strips away vital mucal linings and now i’m sure to catch whichever infection passes for a fashion statement around here. I drain the cup and try to repress my gag reflex.

Outside doesn’t fill me with joy. The grey-sheet sky all the more unwell in the failing daylight. The kind of drizzle which turns skin semi-permeable, puffy like a corpse left face down in a puddle too long; has such a large surface area that it bleeds through layers of clothing and turns them against you. An agent proveceur of autumnal inclinations.

The healthy glow from betting shops contrasts with those shuttered cafes, newsagents and indian takeaways that are just beginning to stir in this early night. On Maryhill Road you will find four such establishments within 5 minutes walk of each other – feeding off the povertystricken minds trying to get by on brew and desperate for those neurotransmitters that light up reward centres like puggy machines. Everybody needs some kind of fix, some salve, a rush, no matter how fleeting and illconsidered.

::::the past tense kids::::

You know the past tense kids? Gone on sugar puffs and fairies they were;
Used to own this town.
Now they half life.
Shuffling the pavement,
wearing out the rubber in their converse all-stars.
Turning corners like pages.

::::the ppl just get ugly::::

Pick yourself up. Let the dust linger, it will come in useful later. It will cling. You will carry on. Not really doing but at least congealing in places.

There are those days that spin by in a beautiful frenzy, that make your head burst in glorious plumes, where you throw yourself from trees and put your faith in the infallibility of safety harnesses.

you dig your nails in here and there, trying to leave an impression, to capture an instance, an amalgamation of above and below; something to mark the passage of fleeting.

Where you can but hope that it makes as much sense after you get it off your chest and into the white space, that you get it down before it evaporates in the morning.

I’ve had one of those. Good things should blossom.

Cat Hepburn

scriptwriter | spoken word artist | arts facilitator


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