Saturday, March 29, 2008

Albion: The Resurrection

The poem that follows, while not following stylistic or qualitative conventions perhaps, is the result of an enquiry into the nature of Londons rave scene. It became obvious to me all to quickly that what we were experiencing wasnt the future, but a chemical simulation. In the words of Pendulum, "put down your lighters, I want to see a bonfire beside ya". Hell yeah. Fuck the ques, lets GATHER. Lets rave, but on our terms. In the words of Prodigy, "FUCK 'EM AND THEIR LAW".

ALBION

I


The streets are obsidean black dripping weary people into wire etched pools of neon light and stray headlamps that pierce the fragile corners of velvet night and engrave unfamiliar lines on leather faces, illuminating roman roads of litter and the grey concrete grooves of sewer systems. Outside the club people shuffle, hustle and linger, or wind hurring home round a fishbowl satellite of london streets, streets blown round and fat by rasping lungs of fettered lusts, a vision pawed and glazed by podgy sweatgleaming fingers of dirt and greed, by junk filled veins that jerk and judder in the insatiate hand of prescription terror. Bland faces, blank verses, the human story moaned, and writhed enduring history, and we moan and whine enduring cold and ques. Our whines pass by wild eyes, a farce to tickle static bones, and soon we are at the door, our feet sniff and shuffle round bouncers, touts, tits and lager, our bodies ache for todays trials but our hearts and our loins are afflame with excess, drunk on easy dreams of liberty. The MDMA I took only 30 minutes before rears its starsponged head and rides my veins.

By the time we reach the cloak room our baggage has already been checked, our trials stowed and our dreams let loose. The dance floor roars through big bass speakers, and whirs in dervish cadence.

The streets we so deride have become narrow tunnels talking in UV tags. With fickle fancy we chase Albion to the shadows, and make love to her in the dark.

II

Vive La Revolution! Inscribed in sweat it drips lurid as teeth grind smiles and eyes grasp for eyes and lips for lips. Upon the altar of the drummer, the lambs eyes vacate before the beat hits.

III

No fires allowed!


To close, an excerpt from a letter I am writing:

Like I said: "batman in Gotham City is a hero, but what would he be if he was your neighbour? Fuckin crispy fried by a bunch of retards with pitchforks and torches. Why? Because universal studios OWNS batman. The rest of us are told to be "normal", powerless. Even comrade Jesse said several times yesterday "yeah, but there's nothing we can do about it".

What would Batman do? I know! Lets invoke him and find out! Oh, shit, wait, Universal studios owns Batman. Carving his symbol on my DNA might be a breech of copyright...


THIS RANT HAS BEEN BOUGHT TO YOU COURTESY OF FRATER SUPERIOR. THANKS FOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT.

2 comments:

Bogus Magus said...

glad to see it found its way into the light...

Unknown said...

indeedy

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