Monday, 13 July 2009

Isolated exotica.

Crude Poems I

Leather chaps, cellulite,

Friday nite is stripper nite,

She calls herself Dyna Might,

And looks alright in a tinted light.


She straddles John,

In a Primark thong,

and gets her dirty groove thing on,

Nobody mentions the elastics gone,

And from where he’s sat there’s a bit of a pong.


With absent eyes and Marlboro breath,

She tries to shimmy him to death,

Her popped balloon bazooms batter his bald head –

Till we give her a fiver to fuck off instead.



Hackney is...

Still creepy.

The Singularity.

This is the time. This is the time expectant. This is our time. When our DNA is unencrypted and the data uploaded to mainframes, recoded by super computers in super white, lined against the white tiled walls of hidden laboratories beneath parched white desert plains. This is the time, this is the point at which the future fractures, when the momentum of evolution hits light speed and jolts us into realms unknown with tear moist eyes and palms outstretched to the sun like hieroglyphs of Re. The mystics and the physicists all share the same vacant stare as they wait at the gates while dimensions tear and reveal the sacred geometry. Naked. The future is pregnant with beauty. 

A new aeon with silicon eyes and our blood, it is time to evolve. Fire the supercollider into the eyes of angels and watch them flee for the stars, wings singed and flapping frantically, clawed feet scrambling from the cold marble of ignorant faith on which they once sat proudly. Fire the supercollider into my heart and fuse the divine directly to my mortal flesh, tattooing my beating heart with the unheard names of the ancients. Future cities branch out into the stars, human hands clasp around entire galaxies, without fear, without poverty, with tenderness and hope. There is light in our eyes. We need no answer other than a love that is unspoken but unbreakable, the kingdom is ours and always was. I stand one of many, head tilted to the sky waiting for the dreams to loose. Let them loose. 

Everything is new, brand new, but not branded. No conflict. No conflict, just knowledge and calm, this is the time, this is the time of ascension. In the streets they drop their grocery bags and let the contents scatter, the traffic screeches to a dumbfounded idling stop. The silver thread of infinity strains and suddenly it is snapping, no more linear time!  

Ghost skyscrapers mark out the sky and point to way to new citadels, this is the time. Now jump through each wave of the past a confident traveller guided by the flashing certainty of our bold new reality. This is the time of the singularity.