the art of the deal

sex is something i’ve never been entirely comfortable with and capitalism is the same, but we participate because no one ever gave us a choice. It wasn’t the best sex ever but at least I got the impression she didn’t hate me. Money is always made by someone, stolen from someone else, “earned”.


we have created a society so alienating

so packed with imagery and nonsense

that the population cannot see black from white

morphed around by the spectral hands of capital

all joy, contemplation and rage removed

until we are exhausted and passive, compliant

its fucked, one day we’re just gonna lose our minds

sudden realisations and epiphanous outpourings

or simply


a short story about work

it was february and i’d been unemployed and skint for months, my jsa and housing benefit wasn’t enough so my private debt was increasing at a frankly staggering pace. I was desperate. I got a job interview through one of those agencies. It was a phone interview and I aced it. The job was at a call centre. The first week was ‘training’, or… more accurately… dehumanisation, brainwashing, the implementation of a unique form of doublespeak, the process of rooting yr world within a limited perimiter where the only thing that counts is ‘the targets’. We were taught to never take no for an answer and to manipulate vulnerable people into giving us money that they couldn’t afford. On the last day after the training was over we were tested. I passed which was hardly surprising to me, the criteria seemed to be that you had to be either an idiot or good at lying. I’m both. The week’s training crushed my soul into sharp fragments. Sorry boss I need to go home, shards of soul just punctured my ribcage.

On my first day proper I didn’t even make it to the office floor. I had to get up very early, the breakfast team were on teevee and I hate them. Then I had to cycle across town in the snow, that was shit. After locking up my bike I walked to the front desk and felt the id card in my pocket, then I turned around and walked out of there. I spent the day feeding ducks in the park, then I had an impromptu snowball fight with strangers. Must we sacrifice our dignity and morality in order to survive?

this one doesn’t count

sometimes people ask me to write poems for them and so i’m like

“first you have to be a fucking dreadful human or fuck me or die (preferably young).

Ideally unseen before combinations of the three cocooned in ever more complex and sophisticated webs of organised chaos.

Life under capitalism is based on conflict, aggression, bludgeoning chaos buffeting around yr ears like drones made from radio static. It has no interest in nuance or context. It has no interest in yr cheekbones and jaw. It is only concerned with consuming and destroying. CONSUME AND DESTROY. CONSUME AND DESTROY. CONSUME AND DESTROY.

The system is jerry built out of scrap and its been a work in progress for millenia. Its fucking nuts.

So there are particles colliding at a really furious speed and its only vaguely held in place by a system of inter-relating forces, gestures, power relationships, traditions and conventions of behaviour. But the equilibrium remains fragile because we are all fucking insane bouncing off of one another and fuelling one another’s insanities.

All this clockwork nonsense hinges on pure luck, our shared primary goal – do not die immediately and our shared primary fear (scrambled and barely perceptible but undeniably collective) – the knowledge that all it would take is a gust of wind and it could all come crashing down. Any given one of us could crack or fragment or become paranoid and delusional and go on a horrific killing spree.

a gust of wind could end it all. Breathe. Breathe! Breathe deeply my child!

Fuck art, just go out into the world and be antagonistic. Then, I’ll write a poem about you.”