Blitzkrieg

In the crooked, crimson light of a Romany lantern, watching the door to the pearl — laudanum unwound — laser beams a monument to filigree. The chartreuse chanteuse, Bella Donna, night shades a silent seizure.

I take the sitar and the tabla to the glade of pink bedazzlement.

There is a crow that lives in the square. He invites the cops to dine with us.

West is the regent pit of neither-or. Mayhem can't sleep for the lips. Remembering to cave in, slide, seize, lose an hour, gain an hour, crash and burn, flaming in the night, every piece, every piece of furniture slides, slides like lightning. The bikers enter the parrot. We take the wheels and we turn them over. We just want to hear some graffiti.

The dragon turns the lock on the kung fu straps. There's black leather and blood on the paving stones.

Mouth, the angel mound is risen from a fall — techné harmonia — risen from the toes. In bed with the uni-perversities of theory and practice, holy manna from the torture victims on cloud nine — Esmeralda! — There is cloud busting coincidences, snazzy, classical allusions to an urban hinterland where an Esté Lauder stagecoach is welded to the front door, static.

Any comment is construed as evidence to be used in a court of law, not ever pop cult cyberpunk neuro logic, but territorialisation of the relativity of the properties of economics.

Fiction never does entail narrative — Atalanta! — For the glass house is irresponsible.

. . . Clocked?

When you've made your choice of service, pay here or be fined. Until the fog lifts, the affair is found out. You can ask the advisor, but you must pay the price for talking.

The Therapeutae have disincarnated. They validate suffering and technologise. They feed off ignorance and compunction.

You really should have a ticket!

. . . Clocked?

You are not authorised by ethno-television. Immediately attempt to make provisions. Do not evacuate. Ladies and gentlemen, you are not on camera.

Immediately make provisions. Get the invisible ink. No reason. This is an urban hinterland. Read: move it — accelerate!

This is the Atlantic Ocean, the Atlantic Ocean spray, the Atlantic Ocean spray calling — Atalanta!

This is a cyberpunk riot in Ladbroke Grove. It's a game and like a game, I remain played.

I enter the emerald eyes of Esmeralda! I do not pay two hundred! I do not pass go! I enter Esmeralda spinning an arc over the one who is somnambulant, pay-as-you-go, polymonophonic.

In diamond-studded Ladbroke Grove, I remain played like a much fêted cyberpunk tomb bomb, with my tiger-head embedded with moon of holocaust paraphernalia — I completely disappear!

. . . Clocked?

I'm hardwired to the neo-politique of this techno-tribe, with this pay-per-view, pop cult anti-narrative.