August 28th 2008

Puck - Captain of our fairy band,
Helena is here at hand,
And the youth, mistook by me,
Pleading for a lover’s fee.
Shall we their fond pageant see?
Lord, what fools these mortals be!

'Arbeit macht frei.' - A Life's Work? Or that ungainly sacrifice so many of us make five days out of seven, eight hours out of twenty-four. I've resigned from the realm of the sleeping in order to maximise the potential of my day. I rest now for brief, intensive periods, the same way morning commuters knock back caffeine shots en route to The City. Atrocity makes you free. The crest of ecstasy only glimpsed at the apex of the most intense experiences, the iron maiden, the hot needle through the cheek, the form ballet, persistence of its insertion, the glorious symmetry as it pervades the next cheek and re-enters the world, using this augmentation as a device on which to support one's head as one watches the news, reporting that a million and three illegal immigrants have been found to be closeted high-powered participants in state control, possibly Jewish, possibly amphibian, but definitely more than the bellowing Slavic labourers they appear to be on cursory interaction. The cheeks contract around the needle as anxious brow is furrowed upon acknowledgement of this revelation. Yes, come over here, steal our wives, our jobs, probably piggy-back our wi-fi with solely their slightly dumb smiles, but more than that, ladies and gentlemen, they steal our freedom. Our new work is annihilate all forms of governemtn and re-educate those each with a finger twitching at a red button, that the only sustainable, honest governance is self-governance, the discipline of the hot needle through the cheek, the form, the ballet, persistence of its insertion, the glorious symmetry of this prose alone is perceived by certain parties - politically mobilized - to be 'dangerous' or 'toxic' hence my next trick is to labour the latent anarchism of the free text with immeasurable weight, invoking Thor's Hammer, juggling thunderclaps and bowling with the darkest, densest cumuli, directing these ethereal colossi as though boots in a cupboard or automobiles in a pile-up at a junction whose traffic lights have been possessed by Puck himself. Puck is alive and well and living in Kansas, one day he'll erupt in each of you, and you'll arrive at your offices, marinated in your own piss, hair aflame, proceed to extract your fingernails with pliers whilst participating in a conference call with The Barclay Brothers. Every secretary's fantasy ideal is for her superior to lay her out on the desk and to shit toxic waste in her mouth, for her kidneys to be injected with liposuction waste as he hollers, spittle-flying, 'I LOVE YOU'. All she's ever wanted. Love conquers some. Bloody, indiscriminate, rampaging, cudgel-wielding conquest of everyone between yourself and death, conquers all. But this is a life's work, and who's to say life works at all when most murderers don't even possess the decent courtly grace to whisper 'I love you' as they saw through the last sinew of their prey's neck?