Tag Archive: writing



It is the insignificance of the human race that allows me to get out of bed in the morning.
Knowing that we’re only hurting ourselves somehow soothes that
frantic butterfly aneurysm
that sticks like shit to the walls and drips and collects in pools.

Brings a skip to my step to realise
Nothing really means anything
And that we’re just the setup of a racist joke
With no punch line.

Feels fine inside to know
no matter
how many books I read
I’m still just a waste product of time.

Line ‘em up boys,
I’ll watch them fall
one
by
one
and when it comes I’ll greet oblivion like an old friend.

It pleases me no end this knowledge that no matter what we do;
Declare war as an excuse to pillage, condone rape with silence,
or even condemnation towards victims,
Profit in cashmoney
from inflicting severed limbs and misery
on Islamic children,
Acting father knows best to those that won’t bend the knee
to the International Monetary Fund for a loan designed
to stripmine public assets for corporate interests
and leave people recycling their own feces

– we’re barely a blip on the radar of the cosmos.

It pleases me that all we seem to do is suck each other dry
And leave behind stumblebum husks of one another.

Doesn’t bother me in the slightest that each day is more empty
Than the one it proceeds.

The fact that the whole of human knowledge is the intellectual equivalent of a 2 dollar handjob down the greasy alley next to the library causes me to stifle a chuckle.

Fuck All Belief.
Just bed time stories we tell ourselves to give the illusion of autonomy.
Freedom is a myth
Invented in the 1950s by Levi jeans and constructed from the yolk of Jack Keuroac’s wet dreams.

The awareness that we belittle and degrade
50% of the entire population
For having tits and giving birth to
Every single soul on earth
To the point where we got them thinking they’re worth less
Than some prick with a penis
Is really an impressive feat of irony.

And when the surface water is so polluted from Hydraulic fracturing
That it burns your throat and makes children blind
And when the roving gangs of UKIP voters beat
The shit right out of you because of your country of origin
And when bigotry becomes national unity
And Well being is replaced with misery
And the source of your next meal is a mystery
Handed out from food banks built out of desperate necessity
And when the government sells out what few rights we have left
To a company that promises to make poverty profitable
And when it all becomes too much to take
And when we are left to drown
In our parents mistakes
And in the moments before we finally break

I’ll know deep in my heart
That being human is great.
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::::loss of appetite::::


image

::::We the Abstract::::




::::Guerilla Monologue #01::::


A few days ago I ended up on the streets on Glasgow with a friend wielding a video camera.

For What Purpose i Cannot Reveal.

Let’s just say that it ended up with me improvising some words and that there was a separate audio recording of this.

So, EITHER/OR/BORED presents….

T h e    G u e r i l l a    M o n o l o g u e s.

This is the story of a Girl who could pass between the cracks of overlapping reality. There may be hedonism and self-harm involved. That might be a Trigger Warning.

::::No Vacancy::::


::::bar:girl::::


::::The Final Solution::::


The war
of parasitic ideologies was the major front
of what would eventually become known as
the real Final Solution;
the complete annihilation of civilisation

::::emergent::::


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
algorithmically
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.

::::c:section::::


::::Bombastic Apocalypse Poem::::


Hide from the cursed day!
Let all of creation eat its own face in shame!
This stubborn stain blights us, one and all
– oh humanity! Will you ever find a hairstyle that doesn’t make you look like you’re one stamp away from a free chai latte?
And if Men’s Health declared that
the consumption of one’s own bath water was the key
to tighter glutes would you rush to embrace that Rosé-tinted dawning
of epitimous brain death?

Lest we forget, the signs hang from every rough-hewn surface. They beseech in such definitives
; irrefutable, immutable, as if language herself would deem to pass such proclamations!
Such limitation!
Nay! Before the end credits roll
and this unconscious plague becomes finally known
you would surely question this instience that any resemblance to those
living or dead
is purely coincidental?
What is still fed into this twilight of cognition on which is written
no longer hopes and dreams but residual images of pure distraction unlinked from even the most remedial of comprehensions may still provide salvation.
If only. I know too well your Meyer-briggs indicators
; some
extraversion-feeling-judging
barely sensing twisted flesh and bone and metal wreck of a passing shadow.
Oh, you’ll be there when the streets run red with our own waste chemicals
and i’m sure you’ll mutter and tut as they seep into the water table
and share your disgust across those ‘spheres you hold so dear
if only because they remind you of what you once thought was the best of yourself
but bore really as much resemblance to your ‘self as those vegan converse allstars
covering your crooked feet.

Cast your eyes for once away from that shallow depth of field periphery inside which your every gesture is forever limited and perhaps for once you’ll understand and not just see but frankly I ain’t holding my breath, baby.


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.

::::Brick:Work::::


At the weekend I belong to this tenement;
its creaks and drafts carry secrets only for me.


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..

::::the neon rain::::


the neon rain falls in
melodies upon the thirsty soil;
the night-refrain becoming
a pitter-patter
of tiny
rhythmic
steps
to which even the Gods must dance.

Cat Hepburn

Scriptwriter | Spoken Word Artist | Workshop Facilitator

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