Things are keeping me awake at night. My factor 50 needs increasing. The moon burns. Delicately I slip out of the window, like a fevered phantom self-drowning in the rain. I thread a needle through two window-panes, similar to how a snake enters at dawn. My mother-in-law says I worry too much. Some people have god on their side, others don’t.

            I see The Man with A House on his Back standing threadbare. Swaying from a lamppost like a frayed flag. Shut the lift-doors and turn your back – the safety net has evaporated. A smug lab-dick throws you from your social chair and before you know it, you’re walking the streets with a house on your back. Home is where the heart is and yet the heart is broken, suffocated and wilts. Can you mix mud, dust, soil and motor-fumes into Love? I know that the years are being spent like pennies in a sweetshop by kids with fiddly haircuts. What does the internet do apart from offer nose bleeds and heart palpitations? I haven’t been able to concentrate since 2005. It’s nothing to with art. It’s about ignorance, pain and poverty. Many Kleenex are covered with blood — impoverished wounds do not clot. This is the tagline for the 21st century.

             Let’s segway to work.

             Where we’ll be wearing our second skins, rubbered up and free from alien-agents. Masked up and sealed inside – kissing a synthetic epidermis, genitals caged and wrapped in pipe wires, brain to belly and back again. The coming age is clean – intolerant of dirt. Our windows will look out onto a mirrored ideal, there will be no actual outside view, no streets or houses or trees and plants – all will be whatever you choose. Like working as a receptionist in an office in ’98 and choosing the right clipart image for the outside of a knackered toilet door. 

2017 - 2020