That summer: Britpop flavour. Blurring the lines on the sexuality rewrite to skipping soundtrack hymn of what-the-fuck. It’s like we were fresh as hubba-bubba bullshit coloured pink and fluffy as monkey’s cloud. Yeah, the whole post-modern ironic thing; like reality is a hologram where the mundane version and the hyperbolic meet.
We smoked down the pulp to the core heat … digging out last minute freakpower vibes and new romantic psychic overhang. You think that you don’t get some kind of Smith’s oneiric energy when you fall asleep next to the speakers mouthing the words of Morrissey? I know a genius that had a stroke and started speaking in R.E.M. lyrics.
The London bus, red phone box, hackney cab, Union Jacked image was bought and sold like the souls of the bar-coded consumer-tested sons and daughters of nascent mall culture. It was a false start, stalling engine kind of idea in the UK. That bright shiny meme fucked in the arse by some corporate paedophile in exactly the same way that fast food culture was — as I always used to say it ain’t fast and it ain’t food.
We push on into the nineties and we’re ripping through the sky with a grungy scream that just begs for a blood sacrifice. Seattle become the focus point of a thousand redirected leylines — dragon lines twisted around a single pulse that screams and ends itself with a shotgun blast. Irony was dead and authority sold the autopsy pictures on the internet. Blogging burst like a billion buboes all over the universal mind and we came in skittles rainbows whilst fellating the lucky charms leprechaun.
You know of course that none of this is true and all of it is just the result off too many bad drugs (prescription, non-prescription and others that defy description) and the whole fucking idea of the twenty first century is a wait for a hangover cure from the fucked up excesses of the past. We are fucked, the planet’s fucked and it is possible that the whole of reality is going to crash into one amorphous fucked up mess of circularity/singularity/hilarity. Oh, doom, doom, doom and someone in the back room chuckles and says: ‘Hey, it’s all relative, my friend.’
Someone presses stop and the tape automagically ejects and begins to spool out like a gothic tickertape or a nest of millipedes. I head butt the mirror, sacrifice my eyes to a tide of blood, and begin crying like a little girl. Blur is playing on the internet radio.
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Filed under: Prose, Short Story | Tagged: Prose, Short Story, writing
This was an excellent read!! It makes me want to visit London even more so now… I love how the last sentence of each paragraph in this piece could serve as the beginning or ending line to a poem, and overall I get such a clear picture in my head of a scene. A time, a place, a feeling… looking forward to reading more!