I was being played back and forth like Muammar Gaddafi. She loved me or at least thats what I understood to be the case. I was the hero of this piece, at first anyway. Later on things changed.
We’re all desperately “doing things”
to deny the gap, the nothing
The cash machine gives you side eye
when you try to draw out a fifty
My band did a music video, it is a collaboration with Rose Glass.
swelling cognitariat existing somehow despite the bad in a
short-attention-span hedonist-individualist world where all hope
and all joy has been crushed at the stifling hands of austerity
It are fucking mad and self-destructive but somehow we persist
Is that someone scratching at the door? I look at my face in the mirror. My eyes are sunken and dead, my skin is a yellowy green, my hair is wild and tangled and sticking up at unusual angles. I am unshaven. The scratching at the door continues. The man from the mirror has sent me an email. He wants his face back. I light a cigarette as the scratching continues. The world feels strangely timeless. There is a de-personalising greyness, a sameness. Timeless AND spaceless. I am here in Brighton but its all the same wherever you go, I may as well be in Amsterdam or Berlin. Sometimes when you loath time itself the passing of time becomes a blessing. The scratching continued. Time is not agricultural time or industrial time. Time is not consumer time. The opening hours are 9.00am – 6.00pm but what the fuck does that even mean? Time IS NOT CYCLICAL. Not anymore. Scratch scratch scratch. Fuck it, time is just time y’know? Time is not torture. Time is not ‘the enemy’. Time is not good and time is not bad. Time is just time. Time is just time! The scratching ceased.
The psilocybe truffles kicked in and a switch tripped; my brain fired up the backup generators and tried to continue “business as usual” despite the emergency conditions. There was panic in the bright white striplit corridors of thought. I felt spaced out and as if somehow something was anti-climactic, there was a chill to the ambience, a scary chill operating at the periphery of consciousness. For some reason I decided that in the future I would be very calm when faced with trivial variations to life. We lay there naked in the nothingness listening to old grime instrumentals on Youtube on my phone.
psych-kill crusade, diplomacy disaster
accordion hearted good for nothing
amazonian pathos, dubious paywall
botox balls, scrotox, cognitariat
insular fuckboy, radial decontextualisation
affirm the negative, assert the questionable
I would be there in a heartbeat, fucker
I would smoke old rope. Thats a fucking fact