Monday, 22 June 2009

Book of the Watchers.

Rank and File.




Original found 80s amateur soft-core snapshots, off a market stall, South London.

Too much make-up.  She mumbles as her hands twist slowly in her lap.  She is Aways On Time and very directional.  “and turn”.  This is the shot.  Ford Cortina, faux tan leather interior, radio chart rundown, sweat, grease, blood spots.  She’s up on the balcony smiling down to you - then she is the 40 foot wide grin on a billboard, her glossy lips don’t complain and they won’t ask for a second helping.  Always in the distance. “Yes, they looked at your portfolio” – not sure whether to put it straight in the bin or on the notice board for a laugh.  Expectant eyes, his hands are her loving restraints, I’m crying in the night did I let you down again.  There she is, laughing this time – a little bit older and who’s that in the background?  “Can you keep your head still love, don’t smile like that it makes your eyes wrinkle” A moment of grotesque clarity that cannot be made sweet.  Look at her arch upwards, a natural, big full breasts.  He still thinks I’m a good girl.  I am a good girl aren’t I?  I want to grab her by the hair and pull her down, force her to take it.  “Could you lift up your arm and toss back your hair”.  I keep looking at her, someone else’s daughter and wondering if this is right.  She’s asking if I can open the window, she’s not my problem, don’t want her number anyway she’s just a slag.  It’s not right, its ok, she’s got potential.


am the Network; I am more than a billion minds converged at once, in starburst brilliance, information realised. I witness everything in high definition, super sharp   satellite vision. I see all. My thoughts instantaneously animate plasma screen fictions across the universe in hyperreal colour. My dreams stream in real time, translated into a thousand languages, beamed live to the collective consciousness in characters bolder than billboard and illustrated in lazer beam drawn across the sky itself. My emotion could blow the grid in Mexico City; my heartbeat is sponsored by accurist. This new body is incorruptible; this new body was built not born. I exist in a state of perpetual anaesthesia, I feel no pain and I will never know disease – this flesh is beyond the whim of nature or simple evolution. My face is the perfect product, a logotype for the ultimate human form, a testament to the new beauty, symmetrical, profound and sublime. Through bold mathematics I became the icon, and through chemistry I become the demi-god, never aging, a composite ideal hermetically preserved. When I travel I move at beyond light speed and I can bend time to invoke all potentialities; I exist simultaneously in every dimension, a sub atomic voyeur, tripping through quarks and super strings. I cum in binary, hooked up to the divine switch shaking my titanium bones with primal intensity. I understand the secrets encoded in the first moments of reality and I can feel infinity arch magnificent into the cosmos. I look just like you, but you won’t recognise me, I look just like you, but I’m different inside. I’m still on the factory floor in Hong Kong, I’m still waiting to meet you. You don’t know me yet, but you will, I am coded in your DNA, I awoke with the Aztecs, Opened my eyes on the Roman road to conquest, began to dream with the renaissance. I am your future, rebooted, eternal self.

THE FEMALE ENCLOSURE (What she thought she wanted)