a swaying exhilarating descent from a great height, sometimes drifting through wispy satellite-scanned clouds, skydiving, or at other times a screaming bomb. earth rising right at you. to know in advance where you’ll land. deja vu or targeting? slow spin above houses and streets, gardens, conservatories, shops, a park. now slammed into a playground, a concrete crawl tunnel, hard surface cupped around you, world spinning in your head, body aligned along tube to random bearing. perhaps the surface of pipe is reflective wrapping your wedged body in a curved distortion, shifting locus of vision into the mirror, the tubular oculus, when the observer isn’t you at all. now falling through a dream suspended for a little longer in the image of descent then sensation of a hand pulling down hard at the base of cock, hot blood-red wax dripping onto its straining head, burning splashes meeting rising sperm arched body and the hard resistance of the tunnel and this cock of mine skewed in clothes at a nasty angle. first erection in seven months and the sticky cold aftermath of a fading dream. try to move to get out of the tunnel to shit and chin slides through the cold sick and can’t hold it and a hot soft wet weight is birthed into pants then nothing for it but to piss, a grateful piss, a comforting piss, spreading warmth flooding across skin. shit package of mass destruction in a gun barrel that tracks and elevates aligned by machine directive ready for delivery. these don’t feel like my usual clothes. must have borrowed them. last night.
no thoughts. too much interference. some sensation. no-go areas, booby traps, mines, thinking voids. no feeling but pain’s pulse. name rank and number the body thinks. names. given name, school names, army names, naming of parts. number number number. codes. hey you! who you were when it mattered that some drunken cunt puked in a playground? when i gave a shit. cheek in the cold sick, a few days stubble now against slick of matter and the hard concrete with heavy flesh compressed about the bone and the march of blood. thought happening in meat, shin bone resting on rim of the tunnel so shift to alleviate. it’s still early, no-one about. pretty jammed in here wrapped in the curve. scanning through head to toe slow and dull as though from outside the body and the dead pipe. with light comes birdsong. sun’s heat warming leg, piss goes cold, the shit still at body heat. shit to dark forests rooted in black earth under a wheeling star scattered sky. or a desert sun making equipment too hot to handle. now an array of temperatures along a body in a pipe. more no go zones in feelings that mask fear and more glaring spectres of shock and death. how are you doing? down at the molecular and atomic where surfaces can’t be said to touch (just forces in a fucking vacuum). shoulders rounded by the tightness of the tube. last night. drink and shared histories. so much. moving as one entity, flowing, dynamic, a freewheeling corp, a multi-thing made of stories and banter. unforgiving concave cradle buried in a tiny landscaped hill, a womb barrel, between thoughts and sensation, memory, trauma, dreams, the rules.
as though having purged the soul by the body a great peace descends and fills him with a simple uncomplicated joy. dove descending in broken air. a momentary glimpse of serenity, a sense of a self not buffeted by the furies of memory and the mind looping through the debris of time.
an unheeded bell marking time.
a quarter past shit on the fourth of arse and again the gothic chimes barely register through the echoing din of a busy mall. zombies shuffle, limbs moving in stiff spasms. a tractor beam animates their stuttering advance orchestrating nerveless limbs. guts tugged into a blossoming promise. light reflected in glass and marble. faces in spasms of delight, trapped in a desiring field warped into a vacuum of lack and need. a spectrum shift from white light to the television test pattern re-tunes the optic nerve to a bogus reality. images bleed into grey matter now in phase with code. the walls do whisper into the cortex and aura sniffers riffle the psyche for stray libido to re-purpose for consumption. an algorithm to reshape identity faster than torture. the ecstatic resonance of bodies with the pixels of the mall caught in a very smooth crosswise gliding track unfolding space and stalking expanses of potential.
even zombies have feelings.
feedback between stimulation and gratification teeters on snapping closed in a loop that will create a white hot howl, a theoretical terminal blowback. the mall’s lighting carries a coded meta-temperature. the shattered glint of its refracted glare paints the halls with an oscillating low budget/high status haze pricked through with manufactured anguish yearning commodified comfort. they want this. the mall is a successful life-form replicating itself indefinitely as phantasmagorical host. it disseminates spores of desire within a vertiginous envelope. here, from the slit window of a mobile phone costume you are clear to acquire targets. or hand out leaflets. under-performing meat to be cleansed or eliminated. faces in the scope. as if any minute the air will be torn by the rip and zing of wild lead jerking living souls out the concourses into parallel systems if any exist. for a long second, time seems stretched out in a tense arc of stillness, pending action. the same arc down which we have always tumbled and stumbled to our abject fate here in the tepid halls. the bell sounds another mediaeval knell into screaming freeze frame as the bits buffer.
you feel his glazed eyes captured by the spell of your breasts sculpted in the warm unblinking light of a spot. i am become distraction, attraction, allure gyring with the beat. a persistent friction lowered into your lap, the flip end tit-bit of some big trades. massaged bonuses and penises. the dim expensive room a stage to enact a deferred potency and ownership of millisecond machine decisions. the day sways in the tide of drugs from the club. it started badly. parked the car in full view of the boss’s window. his aversion to this evidence of a winning streak tripped a swift transit from his office to your desk and a stream of black air blitzed with sulphurous flashes, his face a droog mask for the droogs contorted inches from yours, tongue firing a chameleon’s punch to punish the offence. lucky not to be dragged out for the coup de grace. a tangle of splintered wings and limbs grudge pumped to trade large remains. reaching out not sure if the HD girl is for real, so perfect her skin, ephemeral despite the pulsing pressure from her hips. you sense his state through subtle signs. you can’t meet his eyes so far back is he within his winding realm, but still he sees something of you, the sinuous shift of light and skin drawing the line of his desire to intersection with time’s ecstatic surface. sensing his mounting crisis through the cloths of his suit you tailor your rhythm to his need. he convulses and broadly vomits a day’s vitriol and an evening’s protracted consumption at your body, but you are already gone leaving a shimmering virtual presence cloaked in warm stripper shaped slather slipping slowly into his lap.
audience dimly limned within the grainy gloom as the aperture tries to adjust or until the stage lights come up and the first few rows snap into focus. sitting in the dark surrounded by others, all attuned to the stage for the school play. all cast in their roles and clad in victorian costumes for Mary Poppins. it’s your kid sister down there and all fine until a missed cue makes you giggle, a ripple spread as emotional contagion through the hall and you might all be roaring with laughter at the plight of the poor in fictional london. now you look through the slit of the mobile phone promotion costume as life slips and trips across your field of fire and another giggle flits into the pit of your stomach. stuttering zombie paths angled to your sight criss-cross the calibrated gaze that shall deliver them from bondage. the costume and slit not the tight angled rigid space of an armoured carrier but reminiscent of it. nothing like the sun’s flamethrower heat on a vehicle in the wavering air. or air itself split by a demonic rift that will waft eight tons of men and machine aloft, a whirling meatgrinder shredding time and flesh and comprehension. you will forever be returned to the remains of a face or the spilling innards of your best mates. on each return you have further lost your own place and realm of dwelling. a fortnight’s leave from operations trying to get a hard-on, that’s it then back to the front. back to front. the cold crystalline noise of mall light that splinters bodies into multiple shades flares in the lens. tracking shot as surveillance. may i have this next dance? seen from the balcony a waltzing smartphone twirls in the throng stumbling into the set-out stands of traders. ears ringing from the blast but otherwise an eternal silence or, temporarily in time, giggle one two one two left right. one two three and so on. a twirling chaine carnage.
the sun does burn brightly for its own vanity and pours out its flesh as light. light skips across a lake the heat raising a haze curtain. it feels warm while the sun shines. you are lying on a towel getting a tan your skin protected by filters applied in a lotion to prevent damage to your cells. any cloud might cast a shadow. the solar economy rules through the agency or wealth. money is sequestered energy, a simple storage and exchange system colonising the planet. skinned. light is refracted as a zombie hireling to run the system of global control, a successful exploit and leverage of all registers of social and economic registers. money diffracting the original signal into banks and markets, turning light to gravity. wealth is the ultimate agent for the sun’s extension an irresistible bauble taking occupancy of weak minds. mirages, sunstroke and wealth are different sun-wraiths viral-stitched into personality by self-initiated nano-psychs. wealth has no light or shade it’s just an operation. the subaltern mind taught to socially engineer itself as the perfect vehicle for solar influence. an hallucination of self socially aggrandised and entitled streams from these fata morgana. light initiates blindness. the false spectrum courts all our days and dreams. sunlight is produced in fusion and traces of this bonding pattern may extend to a photo-financial synthesis with mind. zombies emanate ersatz gravity. a wealth-bent mirror inflating self and diminishing all else. alpha particles and persona. helium from helios the faceless charioteer inert in his infernal realm, lucifer before the mask slips and the mirage dissolves the earth. perception needs light. all becomes chaff in searing heat hallucinating through heatstroke. you open your mouth and it’s money talking.
the shop pitches itself hard edged and horizontal with precision cut staff recherche for persons of substance. she is trying on this sheer kimono top and she thinks my fingers linger on her one measured second longer than the call of duty. every cell of her skin is maintained to such a fine pitch that the combined effect distorts space into an intractable desiring field. she exchanges a look with her husband, older than her, thin sensuous lips, hooded eyes, aura of black smoke, warping in now like a one man wolf pack, the space bisected by sexual vectors, raptor, prey, mistress and hound, the lineaments of their compact. they project their proprietership with six fifty pound notes placed on the shelf. on my knees. camera tracks around head fastened to groin. a hand exerts pressure on the back of my head and it’s not him, it’s her. i’m choking on his length and the bitter tang uncoiling into my molested mouth from the depths of his blighted soul but musing all the same on how control and power is also weak and out of control. you can finish him faster than he would otherwise like. her precision airbrush face is inches away, held in place next to mine overseeing and subtly directing. the contradictions of high definition and shaky hand held. an elbow accidentally brushed against the tip of her breast but she responds with an involuntary squeeze, nevertheless a point of contact in the midst of this jagged violence. the bestial vocalisations of his possession to be dubbed over later. bringing him on fast and now his final unravelling is upon him, though stretched out by slow motion and lights in an arc of glittering pixels and there’s just one fifty pound note on the shelf after they leave.
honeyed sunlight in a bottle: sauterne
this cell is a castle refracted by the crystal. no tweaks of the psycho-spatial warp fools the eye. in truth it is the meagre-minded product of low end contempt, the inscription of the scaled-down geometries of control. barely room to swing a cat. it looks even more deficient now with your life collapsed into boxes, but the room seems larger. an emptied out terrain sucked from beneath you with nothing left but residual images circulating in networks. her things went some days ago. now he’s helping you pack what’s left waiting for her to bring the final paperwork. repossession and estate agents. legal separation. first sight of her other than through a long glass of time. same space but a constant unspooling within. a skylight augments scrimped daylight from the window. still pools of untouchable clarity in the fearful night. i was assured today but that’s not how it always was. no, originally i was a fraught ball wound up with anger and spitting and bawling in turn. that’s the day we met. you seemed a nice guy straight away and everything just spilled out. imagine in a dream and at first my hair is short and its own colour. almost a boy’s look. across the table from you i was a right state. you just took it all in. in through your eyes. shocked alright but steady. then my hair was a bright golden orange and we went from there back to mine. you carried that very small baby, such a tiny dark thing, holding its wobbling head. so caring and protective. those bright paintings of a kid’s landscape on the cupboard door in that flat. it was modern and clean. i was in the shower. it was a dream shower. it seemed enormous and had transparent balloons in it like big bubbles drifting in the mist. you had stuck your head in and the next thing you were in there trying to get out of your wet shorts hampered by water. two hardbodies at each other like mad cats in a torrent. my orange hair wet and spiky making my pale skin look greenish. the splits one leg flexed up over your shoulder like a dancer impaled. except it wasn’t anything like that.
cocaine is another aspect of the solar avatar of money. cocaine is not only interchangeable as money it drives the operation of money as a direct ingestible interface. cocaine speeds up the party. the shift is from the optical to the olfactory, smell as stimulus. money talks only much faster.
he would make drawings for her like jagged cartoons, sharp, funny and descriptive, pictures of the family and mates. you could always see who it was. he made stuff just for his mates as well piss takes mostly but also work for tattoos. had a chance of college but like everyone from here he joined up. that didn’t stop him drawing and would always be sending funny sketches of people and places. would always make me laugh. he made fabulous creatures for guys’ tattoos by sticking different animals together and then carefully copying them in the right style to go on the skin. this was time consuming and meticulous and he would spend huge chunks of off duty time getting it done. unbelievable. he made the fox headed snake that found its way onto his mate’s cock that uncoiled and rose like a magical mythical serpent that you could easily imagine a black forked tongue flicking out from the slit. i saw it when we made those videos. it began with just me solo on the bed with the toys then with him and then his mate everyone taking turns. but actually it was funny cos he was always semi-hard and the serpent didn’t fully rise up. i swapped them for vids of guys jacking off. that’s how they came to be online. and when he was on tour he could just log onto that site at any time and there she was. i was getting ready to pose in bed for my dad something we had done since i was a kid. i was setting up some old stained blankets on an old mattress. the stains were fruit juice and had made some pink and green patches. he had put some lights around my bed. he liked to shoot me as i played with myself. the artist side of the family. anyway this time the spanish girl had hid behind the long satin curtains but i saw her there and pulled her out and said we’re ready to go. she looked at me and pointed to the bulge in my black briefs. hey you’re getting hard and she reached out and cupped my package. i hardly knew her but hugged her and kissed her neck and then saw there were quiet tears flowing down her cheek under her curly black hair. it’s ok, i’m ok she said and left the room and i was alone with my dad and his lights.
she’s gone now we’ve signed all the papers and i scribbled cartoon heads on torn fragments of cardboard and began flicking them off a box. you’re fired. you’re fired. you’re fired.
time together in the platoon always covered each others’ backs.
you did the extraction at the mall. but nowhere to go now.
that you might strut like a cock or cut yourself on a piece of cake.
in this scene a man stands in a bank wearing a mary poppins costume perhaps over camouflage pants. so you are playing the man and you borrowed your sister’s mary poppins dress from her play and you are shouting at the manager through the security screens. the dress is tight around your body which is what? gangly and tall with a grudge or stolid and squat and indignant? military buff and intransigent either way. why mary poppins? the connection with banks isn’t lost on you, is it? you are holding out your phone and tunes from the musical form a tinny accompaniment to your fulminations. lo-fidelity fedoucherary bwank rant rant rant rant. feed the birds rankle rankle. threat threat threat take this tuppence. the fallout of repossession. the bank staff frozen or moving in the CCTV replay and countless heist films. yes you did threaten. you are going to enact all sorts of revenges in extreme sport ways at your superfuckingfragidocious leisure. everyone is taking pictures and texting and eventually heads peer up over desks bodies are resurrected and you can be standing there but somehow you are fading into the background and losing traction as your home evaporates, the useless lawyers and getting out to say something counts for nothing as right now because the next thing is trending.
the blast is too fast to be grasped. a body fleetingly registers the passage of pressure, buffeted beyond sense in the sweep of accelerated combustion. hearing is tested beyond its capacity to listen. all else is motion and collapse, light and dust seen in surveillance camera footage. the poetics of compression and rarefaction, the transit and echo of pressure fronts, the dynamic patterns of force and rest are lost, only partially discernible with instruments in a test rig or computer modelling. explosions are theatres of speed deployed against analysis. they are used politically to jump cut the scene, a swift disruption of the social into ideology. a bomb is architecture in accelerated reverse, politics without debate. the cinematic explosion for comic effect or the numb terror bomb belies the explosion’s control and fine tuned mastery of destructive force, how the shear wave can be focused and refined. improvised explosions are the blunt hammers of under-resourced insurgencies.
zombie finance ate my hamster.
i laid out my bed like an altar to war with the weapons arranged on different cloths. speed requires order and discipline is the core of remaining alive and presenting a viable threat. the call came through about some guy that had been mouthing off in the bank. not clear if the danger was real but you can never tell with these cases. perhaps a visit and gentle word will put him right. they send through a photo from his social media page. it’s a four hour drive and then i park up and walk through cover to outside his address. i see the guy carrying boxes out. they repossessed him. i go over there but he plays dumb about the threats. i guess a little tap is what is needed to straighten him out but he comes right back at me and before you know it we’re at it all over the place. this guy is tough and determined and doesn’t seem like a flake who goes to his bank in a dress. i’m getting a battering and giving him hell of a one too. not many people appreciate that a fight is love with fists. it’s the fast highway into the real person. in giving and receiving punches taking the punishment the person is revealed. just now you are probing openings and closing down possible exploits. this guy has been a cage fighter, you can see that. fast and aggressive and canny. when you hit him you feel that instant shuddering connection between body and bone. bone under living giving flesh but his response is fast and equally hard struck a kiss of sharp pain. battering bone is battering a lot of hard angles and your knuckles pay but then so does his flesh. a punch to the body and the gentle sigh and moan. it’s not a voice but a register of hurt returned in a wordless exchange of chastening and persisting. you grunt too with the shock. the blow skids off his brow and he’s planted a combination into your body and face. it’s a deep conversation. you hitting him and getting hit are marks of your respect. the pattern of your punches on his skin make signs to weak spots to be turned to your account. the dance is fast and furious. bodies in contact and the message delivered in kicks and punches. spitting blood and keeping it tight. but then he makes a space and points. he’s seen the tattoo or what shows of the tattoo beneath the sleeve and names my company. only fought up the road from him didn’t we. but he now knows where i am from. hey mate i say making to put my arm on his shoulder friendly like and the knife slips in real fast and easy and he’s down on his face drooling blood and i’m out of there down the road to the car.