Sunday, 21 June 2009


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, 6th 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?