STRANGE REFLECTIONS I

I. TETAHATIA THE SIGIL

On the cluttered table was a bunch of flowers. Why hang on?
              The book looked like The Grimoire of Armadel. It fell open at a page emblazoned by the finest designers: a unique confirmation…

In the sigil may be noted the ways whereby a blinding darkness may be produced, or a thing terrible unto one’s enemies, also how a blessing may fall hereon.

               Disenchanted with modern forms of authenticity, allowing for the current fashion for ‘second skin’ dressing, I wiped the table clear of dust and examined the charge sheet. Waifs had no impact.
Tetahatia was a Spirit of Science and Virtue who preserved our forefathers from their enemies. This is bondage gear for gossamer girls – sweet kicks, roll-up tricks, share your secret – we promise to spell a five-letter word and decide which statement is true or false, it’s dead simple and copper-coloured.
I head with a friend for a small shop tucked down the side of Harrods while, outside, clouds gathered and rain fell on the Surrey countryside. Why is it this world inspires some of the worst euphemisms of all time? Meanwhile, back in my study, a crystal ball glowed unobtrusively in the gathering gloom.
                “You live in Kings Cross?”
                 I take her home wrapped in layers in tissue and skulk around the place like a secret policeman disguised in a multi-coloured sarong.
                “Tell me about it, Karen…”
                  I dream to myself, clicking into a sort of regressive hypnosis and lay back on my sun lounger, as functional as a wardrobe of lace hankies.
                  Later, after a candlelit meal we strolled arm-in-arm and examined ourselves in the rear view mirror. The blood was coming from a tiny hole in the side of her nose but the doctor didn’t have an answer.
                   The police cleared the road for a hundred miles, just for us – and the years rolled by…

II. EVIDENCE OF DRIFT (THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT)

At first we shared memories of Ron. I could feel them being drawn off, but it wasn’t painful. Square, circle, backbone, round blob. One-way ticket.
                    But out of the window I noticed another flashing blue light.
                    Befuddled minds. Evidence of drift. Liberties already lost. They were afraid. We liked the same music and films. I saw rows of stationary cars. Then there was the Black Hand. What?
                    “All this, just for you,” I teased.
                      You live in Kings Cross? Doors get kicked in. You don’t have to look far. We try to help people to move on, but…these were happier days: here’s Brad with his first wife Beryl, and their sons Dean, Toby and Fabian. It’s a grainy, high-contrast photo, crumpled round the edges.
                      Strange reflections.
                      Trying to break free can lead to angry confrontations with even the most perfect friends. Carl showed Lorna his animal instincts.
                      The recluse was ordered into hospital. Moved from under a mound of filthy blankets, she does not leave the room to go to the toilet, instead she uses a saucepan. Dr. Walsh believes she has not washed for about four years. He tells us she has lead a shiftless, unfulfilled life, ‘cared for’ by a tyrannical French lawyer with a litigious passion for weird relationships. She adores weepy films that make her cry. Fully alert mentally one paparazzo managed to get a snap, a notorious ‘trick’ learned in a Chinese brothel.
                       Dr. Ward slumped behind his desk littered with files, case histories and bags of rubbish. “Fancy a cuppa?” he asked, blythe, urbane and quite the ladies man.
                       Attention to duty breaks down. The two sisters, played with great panache by Nancy Bosch (who looks like a cut-price Louise Germaine) fuse into a smoky intensity and hang like pall over Paris.
                       “I bought this film for you,” she lied and kissed him. He slipped it on.
                        “Karen,” he said in his delicious accent, “you are soooo kind.”
                         This was, of course, the particular nuance of meaning she had intended even though I had my own trajectories and associations; bizarre links to this world and the next.
                          Cut in two by the window, quartered by the leading players, the recluse reminded her of the case of Anneliese Michel who died of acute emaciation in July 1976.
                          According to the charge sheet Father Alt was trying to exorcise demons. He claimed that The Devil had spoken to him from Fraulein Michel. Sometimes these exchanges had been “quite entertaining” he said. She had deliberately served penance for such present-day wrongs as abortion, the errors of politicians, the defection of priests from the Catholic Church and the unrecognised agonies of baby-snatchers.
                          Beryl went white. “Was my bum job just a rip off?” she asked distraught and dissociated by the splendour of 18 carat gold, the timeless appeal of diamonds and the elegance and originality of Dr Ward’s technique.
                          Mr. Justice Thesiger, just back from a holiday in China, explained that Karen claimed she was a witch and a thousand years old. Her mother is No 1 suspect, having spent two periods in a mental hospital and then discharged herself. The door banged shut behind me, drowning out his words. He was the sort of bloke who would order a pint of Boddingtons rather than a glass of Bordeaux.
                         “I’m sorry your honor,” the prisoner replies, “I didn’t know she was dead – I thought she was English.”
                          “This,” I said to myself, “will have to be a report of the everyday.”
                            It must move against, or at least interrogate, ambient and clairvoyant aspects of ‘the everyday’
A report of the everyday: who puts the Bucks Fizz into bedtime, who rings the doorbell, who kicks in the gramophone.
                             Yesterday, on a train, I picked up a newspaper and saw the headline:

                               Dog-Boy Tragedy. A boy of four, abandoned by his unwed mum, growls and licks his food off the floor after he was brought up by two dogs in Hungary.

                               On another page Polish Astronomer Sofia (Sister Marie) printed a cosmic forecast. John Thomas haunts her loo, scaring the willies out of the family, swinging from the light bulbs, fusing three TVs and turning on cooker hot-plates. You don’t have to look far. Is beauty only as deep as your make-up? Unfortunately heavy rain meant the parcel (and my make-up) had disintegrated.
                              “So do you,” she breathed.
                               His lips were on hers. The cue dropped to the baize, forgotten.
                               In such matters we may all have to be subjective and try to help people move on, just as the Fascine can drop a vast bundle of rods into ditches and craters.
                               I put a small radio in with her and tuned it to a classical station – soothing, nonstop music, evidence of drift, high-rise shoes, red latex and whiplash kohl marking the beginning of the end.

III. THE POLISH ASTRONOMER

Well, what the heck?
                               Turning down a chase with a sinister cop on a motorbike (another set-piece, another prescient career resume, another blend of courtroom drama and The Mystic) clad in spotless white lingerie, Sister Marie, The Polish Astronomer, conjured up spooky spectre John Thomas from his closet hideaway.
                               The angry spook wears a Quaker hat and has a canary on his shoulder.
                               A disabled girl who said neo-Nazi skinheads carved a swastika on her cheek inflicted the wound on herself, officials said yesterday.
                               “I knew where I was, but I was dazed and I don’t know what happened. It wasn’t scary, it was just annoying really…”
                                 Unusually lucid the canary said “Da…Da…Da…” which we all knew meant “Yes…Yes… Yes…” in Rumanian or was it Polish?
                                 In 1990 a man died in his flat. His body was found last week. He experiences strange dreams of a crushing tidal wave sweeping everything and everyone away in a festoon of brilliant ghostly special effects.
                                  Secret weapons. Was that the gearstick? Do you have a photo of your hunk?
                                  Someone shouted “Reduce crime, destroy porn, stop all wars or face global extinction by a giant asteroid (Isaiah 24)”.
                                   The canary said “Da…Da…Da…” .
                                   The house of the Lord has many rooms but surely I can wipe him out of my life? Solve the clues and write to us. Make good by infiltrating a Slab City ‘mob family’. Get soaked by the pouring rain. Balance on a window ledge outside Lorna’s apartment, have a peek when she takes her clothes off.
                                    “Yes,” she nodded, “I had a wonderful time. In fact, I sometimes think I could do with a transplant just to keep up with him.”

                                      Dr. Ward con­sulted a workshop manual, looking out for an ironic cameo.
Seeing Sharon so pleased I suddenly knew I couldn’t oppose her. Road signs swept past in a blur. My heart flipped. Some habits die hard. Nothing unusual there, you might think. Her pavlovas had a tempting home-made look.
                                    “Murder, blackmail, obsession: slowly I found we had other things in common. Now Laszlo and I plan to wed this year, then we’ll be a proper family.”
                                      What does that make her?
                                     “I never make the first move. He eats nothing but mash.”
                                        I always feel incredibly nervous in front of a crowd; you might ladder a few stockings – but it’s definitely worth it.
                                        Enter a woman who had tried to poison her family with metal polish. She was described by the clerk of the court as ‘a bit of a goer’, a blunder while travelling to a convention of escapologists.
                                          Mr. Oliver Martin QC, prosecuting, said
                                          “People must pray, beg God for mercy on their knees to stop the fireball asteroid. This trial is not a super day out at Alton Towers, this trial is no isolated phenomenon, this fiction has a strange reality, this burlesque epyllion is the cat’s whiskers, the performances of the four actresses are simply outstanding not to mention the jazzily noirish score.”
                                          In a newspaper interview, in 1983, Brad claimed that Beryl was a Jehova’s Witness. Blood is not always thicker than water. The longest most people stay is two years and its not uncommon to drift. There are a million transactions in the naked city.
                                           In the viewing room John Thomas removed his hat and shrugged. People may snigger, but let them. He leered at a couple of girls wandering about at night in crop tops their miniskirts halfway up their bums. The canary said “Da…Da…Da…” It was then that I realised that Brad was not the –shameless schmoozer I had thought he was – road signs swept past with minds of their own.
                                             Feeling relatively relaxed Marie removed her underwear and stood naked in front of the mirror. She glanced round the room: blowy white drapes, heavy eclectic furniture, dunked cigarette buts, a snake pit of wires. It was the incarnation of monastery chic and badly-lit social realism. She pouted for the camera and apologised for the quality of the sound.
                                             Then things changed, or I changed. What was she thinking as she looked into the mirror? She thought: “I don’t want to live under a state of siege any more than I want to live in Slab City, sheesh!” Her eyes shone with happiness. The pool was surrounded by a high metal frame. In the centre of the room was a computer-generated plastic model of a skull: the gently surreal cross-dresser proved nothing.

IV. THE MALIBU DIALECT

“Well blow me over with a hanky,” thought Karen, “I can’t believe how hard it was to get a straight line…”

                                             As she tried to concentrate beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. The beautiful, enigmatic maybe-victim had hardly touched his ploughmans.
                                            “Coax me out of my misery.”
                                              Sofia was suspicious of Vincent’s fascination with Crypto-Genealogy and Urban Alchemy, for her it was all pseudo-scientific pastiche and sci-fi whizzbangery. But the call was all in a days work.
                                               Father Alt cited as proof of the girl’s subjection to The Devil her ability to respond correctly to languages she did not know, and her accurate forecast of the theft of consecrated wafers from the local church. In this line of business demons crop up every day, falling in love with the very thought of her.
                                               Few tourists make it to Slab City. There are no hotels, no bars and no shops. The people are poor and eccentric. Newcomers register and receive an ad hoc address. Brandy and coke slopped onto the table as I slammed down my glass. These dispossessed are called ‘Trailer Trash’. They are all afraid, surrounded by pushy beggars, aggressive drunks and people throwing up. It’s not at all nice. My weight dropped by a stone. There were dark circles under my eyes.
                                               In the distance I saw Laszlo the Hungarian Dog-Boy, now a resident of Slab City, known by several local CB ‘handles’ such as Beach Bum, Fireball, Smokey Joe, Cosmic Duck, Wizadora Nosseck and Otis Snapp. He will soon learn to turn tricks in front of the camera like the rest of us.
                                                Meanwhile, still completely naked, Sister Marie was locked in a dark booth in Charlotte Street with pixilated spook John Thomas. She put down her binoculars. The cheese-grater was enough to make anyone jump. It combines a whole range of modes to suit every shot. She hoped for the perfect storybook ending. My boyfriend, who’s here with me, was appalled by the idea. He was wearing Ralph Lauren ‘Safari’.
                                                 The door burst open, the room flooded with light.
                                                 “Hard luck,” she said swiftly, looking at the gang of superannuated hoodlums wearing Doc Marten boots, lounging about the bar eroding her civil liberties. Camp body-builders displaying neo-Punk body-piercing, grotesque pantomime dames wrapped in voile jackets, corseted, laced and fishnetted in stretch-suits, cloves of garlic and seven-league boots. Laughter filtered through the open window.
                                                   She thought: “There are a million transactions in the naked city. You have to haul your own water, dig your own hole for sewage.” Some kids, retrieving a football, stumbled on five guys shooting up behind a wall. The trailer trash closed in. She succumbed to a Liquid Cosh and went out like the proverbial light, Chinese Lanterns exploding against the dark backdrop of her mind. The process was not a benign one.
                                                    Suddenly John vanished, leaving the grinning canary saying “Da…Da…Da…”, which she knew meant “Yes…Yes…Yes…” in Russian or was it Belgian?
                                                    The dream was the old disciplinarian one: in fact twenty-two are due to close by the end of the century. Gone are the days of rusty chastity belts, ‘swishy’ canes and daunting views of the Surrey countryside. No more creeping around gardens, getting drunk on your own in pubs, being a phone pest. No time to lurk in bushes. Now its hobble skirts, Tyrolean girls in spiky bondage garb, waiflike sixties dollies and an out-of-work speech therapist zipping the hips of a vampiric concierge. Marie fiddles with her cardigan, her legs scratched and aching. Happiness is fleeting. Now it’s gone.
                                                    John Thomas, wearing his black Quaker hat and child-size Ninja Turtle slippers communicated in a sort of telepathic psycho-speak, in the Malibu dialect.
                                                    “I dunno why I stayed – free television, meals an’ a nice cuppa tea, I suppose…“
                                                      The doctor will get the wrong impression. Remember, if you die in your flat your body wont be found for years, even with £60 in your pocket and a scream dying in your throat. Think electric that was the answer.
                                                     “Ooh, keep talking,” whispered the spaced-out spook, extruding a snake pit of wires from his abdominal region. After a few weeks she trusted him enough to give him her home number. The minutes flew by. She went out and came back in, cold and wet.
                                                        A voice in her mind said:
                                                       “I’m from The Lake District originally…I don’t intend to kill you now or later …you’ve developed an obsession…you have to learn to let go…”
                                                        The gasman clicked the new meter into place as the officer, Inspector Flapper of the Yard, explained the Mental Health Act of 1959. They arranged for an engineer to come out the following Friday: it was as though Nature – something he loved – doesn’t want us to forget him.
                                                       “Is it fixed?” she asked nervously.
                                                         My heart lurched; I fired off an angry letter and broke the news. It looked like…sort of fetishistic archaeology of artifice and apparel.
                                                        Paris is the capital of my fixations. I think of The Sphinx Hotel. A strange letter appeared on the bedside table. There was a vision of a salmon pink banana. A year on she still needs an oxygen cylinder.

                                                        Sofia reached for a beige suedette jacket and matching skirt.
                                                        Perhaps she died in his arms. Perhaps he died in hers.
                                                        Few will mourn their passing.

V. THE CURSE OF MOMMO

What popular mythology paints as ‘the good old days’ counts for nothing in Tooting Bec.Vince took them all to the local flea-pit for an evening out.
                                                       “It’s just another bloody awful old B-Movie, isn’t it?” snarled Brad. But they went all the same. It was The Curse of Mommo, made on a shoe-string by ex-Hungarian Dog-Boy Laszlo ‘Fireball’ Zednick.
                                                      Dr Thomas Bewlay was in attendance throughout. Fearsome charge nurses ran the place like a barracks. After the first feature there was a jovial concoction of comic turns, ballads, singers and acrobats. The streets echoed with the cries of traders and the clatter of hooves. However six out of ten are the wrong size. Sister Sofia-Marie, clad in her astrologer’s nightdress of blue silk, velvet, lace and mesh (this is a new, tough-edged femininity) thought it had something going for it but she didn’t know quite what.
                                                    “Well, that’s modern art for you, luvvie” sneered Brad. Everyone else was bored rigid. Vince, however, was strangely quiet the whole night and into the next day.
                                                      In the film, evil Baron Rudolf (cursed by the mysterious Mommo in a previous depraved incarnation of bizarre and brilliant visual theatre) gets assassinated by a troupe of strolling mummers. It was a dark, lavish and disturbing vision of mayhem and romance, and, like some campy villain in a Roger Corman movie, ‘dreadful’ Baron Rudolf dies in horrible circumstances.
                                                      Her heart flipped. It was all like a fantastic dream. Time and space twisted into weird origami shapes.

                                                      Next morning a policeman rang. He knew who started the fire in the wainscoting.
Inspector Flapper showed his chipped teeth and laughed in her face. “It’s the curse of Mommo! Har! Har! Har!”
                                                       Where do they come from? Have they simply been cast out to make money?
                                                        Back at the office the phones were going berserk. Very sleek and sporty in regal corsetry, his little piggy eyes narrowed as Sister Marie polished her crystal ball. This could be a feeling that lasts all day. God I hope not.
                                                        Laszlo’s underground movie-type mise-en-scene called for high camp and all sorts of tricksy far-out anachronisms. So… ‘frightful’ Baron Rudolf, played by New York City gay porn diva Johnny Detroit, wafts about the set with a silver cigarette holder, now a ‘pretty boy’, now a post-phallocratic ‘homme fatal’ with an attitude problem, now a low-backed ‘couture man’, trailing pink scarves and quoting from The Magnetic Fields. The scheming court chamberlain (played with great panache by Nancy Bosch in a floppy white fright-wig) looks just like Andy Warhol filming everyone on Super-8, creating dramatic self-contained episodes from footage shot over three years of disreputable urban adventuring. He believed it summed up the contemporary world, he said at the press conference.
                                                        Learning to speak correctly was an uphill battle for Karen, although, through her new interest in music, she finally made some friends. My Aunt Ada gave her a recorder served hot with chips, salad and lashings of mango chutney. Other kids laughed at the noise she made. Was that the gearstick?
                                                          “They are scapegoats, everyone is against them,” Otis looked depressed.
                                                            Sister Marie gazed into her crystal ball and saw an unusual welcome sign: a naked body crucified to the gates of Knobheresberg Castle. And, sure enough, there’s evil Baron Rudolf preening himself to ‘La Paloma’ on the soundtrack..
                                                             “So, well, you know, whatever it is, you know, I feel like…well, you know…er…ummm…this film gives a voice to people who wouldn’t have one…so, well…okay…I’m an ex-stripper, but I’ve made ten films…so, anyway…”
                                                               Some bizarre press conference in LA.
                                                              “The triangle represents advanced technology, winners and losers, and this and…er…that…”
It was Johnny Detroit in a black and white pin-striped pyjama suit. The press pack fired a barrage of questions.
                                                                Pushing wet hair out of his eyes, Johnny said, “There are neither nights nor days…”
                                                                 Eventually I got up off the bathroom floor and wiped my tears away. They walked out together chatting nineteen to the dozen like they were bosom buddies. The world was simply an immense ship. I shut the door behind them chuckling. Given half a chance these neurotic moral crusaders will rant on about anything from the evils of white rice to the ordination of women. Vince told us about his psycho mum.
                                                                Despite all the soft-soap and free booze bystanders predict the result is foregone conclusion.
                                                                Things hotted up in Lorna’s kitchen.
                                                                “No sign of John Thomas,” thought         Sister Marie, scanning the horizon with her opera glasses.
                                                                 She was a lost soul without him, she knew that now. Her peachy, spacious apartment was waiting for the return of the spicy spook, his Ninja Turtle slippers warming in front of an overheated whirlpool bath.
                                                                  The rolling hills of her perfumed hair stretched in a crescent from Hessle on the Humber to the cliffs of Flamborough Head. She was a tribute to the skills of early photographers, affording him glimpses of familiar places and snatches of London low-life, including cab drivers’ shelters, Annie’s Bar, the Deptford Blades and Crash Course Counseling in Catford.
                                                                  The self-destructive sickness of national cynicism, a “poison” spread by the chattering classes was all grist to his mill, a peculiar malaise stretching from Guildford and Winchester to Titchfield and Godalming. In a series of well-choreographed broadcasts and speeches the schedule was changed. The canary panicked. Her jaw almost hit the floor.

                                                                    This is where twentieth century history begins.
                                                                     But The Curse of Mommo was a stunning antic and a dark, noisome shadow outside every bedroom.

© A C Evans

I: FINAL COUNTDOWN

Far out incandescent concrete message final countdown phantom hitch-hiker fall apart rainbow bridge designer death threats burnt-out cars torn maps of inner space – its all in a day’s work for the man on the train reminiscing (mint juleps pillared verandah those were the days) bombed-out instrumental breaks ultimate urban adventure every Friday night at La Casa Neurotica anytime anywhere shareholders cream-off millions whole thing bad trip derangement overload burning tabernacle critical year all we need why sir I do declare simpered Angie from The Hotel Balkan – I woz a gay biker centerfold seventy three seventy five lets go lets go just another service wheel clamps and a pain in the arsenal Jack. Bad old days Whitechapel Mile End down and out far gone far out far flung corner of The Empire get away with murder loss of identity crisis I keep re-living these nightmares hidden heritage deep underground deep down deep and dark we just don’t talk about it anymore may you rot in hell you goggle-eyed couch-potatoes looks a wreck now dear god no more oh pleases don’t ooh ow ow aaah do you really wannit? Alumni lesser lights and luminaries violence swearing drug abuse nudity and now a few words from our sponsors obscene fat cats large cigars limousines colour TV Botticelli shower-curtains great expectations. Trapped Phoenix life or death girls or boys ladies and uh gentlemen The Screaming Skulls of Olde England! The Mad Dogs of Worthington! What a scoop outside this charmed circle of slowly revolving clear blue plasma I just love rooftops exotic kaleidoscope dubious screen personas dead branches I cried 96 Tears of remastered ecstasy just so blank inside killer testimonials third eye warning meltdown into trash trash into style and back again he would say that Action Girl smashes thru window prances across the table gives Jack a big wet sloppy one right on the kisser couldn’t believe my eyes what a turn up dirty street screeching video howlers flaring nostrils cracked skin – don’t say anything darling not a thing

II: MARBLES LOST IN SPACE

Wrinkle your nose stick out your tongue wiggle you bottom trust me I’m a doctor regular sensitive synchronize your watches there’s a lot of it about. All I got was an ansaphone and continental drift blue mountain no more crushed velvet flares arch across sky with diamonds full-blown orchestra of long-haired weirdos in mascara funny hats can do without this actually I always wanted to get some girl to carve swastikas in my hair (or face) dismembered by the audience reconstituted as the Orphic shaman of rock ‘n’ roll I’ve seen the future and it stinks to high heaven better believe it or else charismatic renewal smoke filled rooms beer skittles rum bum and concertina pile ‘em high sell ‘em cheap dirt cheap shift product crucify your sister on prime time news pile up bodies on the beach don’t look at the camera! Make it real sunset over the bay with illuminations I always wanted to be like the vicar’s wife so demure so childlike so innocent crashing chords jangling nerves dismembered chickens couldn’t possibly comment smoke drifts across battlefield walking wounded fall into trenches jets buzz overhead tattered flag flame-throwers real thing not just TV big movie production values ‘the works’ (you’ve got it just name it yours for a price) lets face it kiddo we’re on different planets trash into style and back out again and again smoke gets in your no way no more last known portrait and there was golden mountains on mountains all living on The Edge its all SF now broken film fast lane red green amber gray clouds back of beyond living death middle of nowhere no place Sic Transit Gloria your hazel eyes your gilded youth I get so confused my father looked like Edward Fox sign here

III: KICKING AND SCREAMING

Electric windows sunroof alloy wheels remember how what when?

For a few quid you can be whoever or whatever you want: Wannabe The Empress of Cool? Wannabe Kathy Acker? Wannabe Eric Cantona? Wannabe an all-round entertainer? Wannabe The Great Og Dogon? Wannabe Gazza? Liza Minnelli? Peggy Lee? Perry Como? Recall those rituals? Old stagers never die just fade away some day hysterical takes allsorts Zany Janey from Dial-A-Dildo drapes herself across an ice cold Croc-O-Roc chrome plated cocktail shaker red light green light Bistro Bar Cafe Moiré gerrem off run a gauntlet of hate in your slinky numero noir its a hundred quid if you gerrem off on the tube unique blend of high quality service lets go go go well I always cum kicking and screaming its two hundred quid if you gerrem off in flight entertainment kamikaze cherry blossom life support every evening every afternoon last night the moon turned green eye-popping mesmerizing dazzling affecting this lower class accent my Aunt Polly was well-sprung and religious I used to dread her regular visits morbid gazing city of spires just watching movies all day long clear out riff-raff common as muck even now my funeral cortege stink of sweating its fifty quid if you gerrem off in a restaurant (waiter has to sign) put some meat on your ribs fully licensed wine bar crammed with saucy sixteen year olds know what I nudge mean nudge done up to the nines patent leather shoes lounge lizard chop suey garden Chinese Lanterns gerrem off at the weekend no questions asked oh Donna ain’t no way out how sordid can we get never mind your airs and graces floral tributes wreathes bouquets shock loss of identity this is it

IV: BREATHTAKING RIVETING

A parrot screams Stella Artois! Crisis shock loss of identity parade gerrem off three hundred quid if you gerrem off on Blind Date what a hoot Cilia faints shock filthy job somebody’s got to do it variations gerrem off in Blackpool for five hundred no more no less breathtaking riveting darker than the darkest black hole New York invaded by twenty-foot high battery-powered pissing Barbie Dolls “Its like some bloody awful B Movie” muttered Brad as a he took my arm passing trade big money media tycoonery international door-opening gerrem off cause international incident all good stuff all mod cons spotless white spiritual heartland broken silent films rolling flickering frames night moves grainy images aging gigolo don’t gerrem off for him no way not even for seven hundred a real lifeline oh please don’t its too little too late if he looks this way don’t say anything (story of my life) just bourgeois trash cross over into other dimensions in a white Ford Galaxy Street lights streaming away gerrem off end up on a wall in post-modern lights gerrem off on up down do the Lambada jive bunnies live it up ghosts of Glen Miller Ritchie Valens you should be so unhygienic crispy prawn wantons makes you wonder about this younger generation such poor taste total basket case who’s this talking voices in my head told me to do it do it just do it tawdry leopard-skin coat barely concealed power mania that’s what it is then we were zapped by commie psychics

V: ALL THE STREETS

Utterly unthinkable on The Thames Turbo of all places Electronic Huggy Trolls rub hair for luck can feel it coming (all) over me gerrem off inspire nameless terror face the music take it like the weedy wimp you know you are – intercession – thank you very much make of it what you will Ford Transit Gloria Mundi stirring dead leaves in Surrey Countryside apocalypse noir yesterday I thought I saw The Shadow ghost of inhuman bondage gerrem off gratis in a portaloo centre of town broad daylight smell of street crime car crime hate crime mingles with melting tarmac some old guy with bad memories of The Burma Road I just wanna see her face its life just life that’s all just life innit? But she turned her face to the wall yeah it’s only flesh only folded-in childhood memories yeah an eclipse of the sun Siegfried’s Rhine Journey not too hard teach me a lesson just do it – its the best – all girl body builders for Death Metal wheels within wheels vicious circles undertones overtones evil in the small ads bridegroom wore suspenders distant fractured recording of Doris Day singing Move Over Darling on the edge on the very edge morbid fascination for lives of loners and losers any one who’s no one City of Destruction hot towels lifetime of wandering its all the streets all the gutters star crossed fallen love uncertain spaces drained liquid energy Kool Dude Hombre live every Friday nite wicked in the wicked

VI: SOLARIUM TREMENS

City scabby bag lady New Age Strippers Queen Mary’s husband was the same “and she was ALL starch, absolute starch.” when we had Joe’s funeral the vicar was under the arch normally he’s up the other end gutted? A young couple from Woolwich just fainted on the spot I should say I’m so fat men don’t look at me anymore or the wrong men enter The Saloon Ranger one of the wrong men in a distorting mirror can I effect machines? And now the good news put it where you want to be kissed explore new dimensions pump up the volume triffic version of I Got You Babe ivory satin corset ecru lace and tulle pouting bee-stung lips welcome to Planet Earth Bozo we name the ships of shame dead vision quest into Faze Zone Karm Zone two nights in a crevasse embrace white whore echo homo naked pictures obsessed attacker hasta la vista baby love suspension bridge incident pages in the wind ecce ancilla dominatrix anti-crosswise slip roads mega-babe boobs mama just another macho trip scared sharks seven tentacles each with a mouth specialty of the house toady’s fixtures Hatfield and the North Mariana in the South The Merton Parkas The Barking Psychos your Hollywood Gothic allure its that old black well did you ever no more no less impersonating The Girl Who Broke Buddy Holly’s Heart hunger for perverse liberation windswept bridges grinding juggernauts I can take it clenched fists nothing can hurt me now live Monday live Tuesday dead by Friday collide with Mars spinning top La Grottesca Ballet And Dance routine Avon calling put him through rodeo switchback bright young things who come and go oh shapes and shades bold and beautiful solarium tremens more dead than alive you’ll never forget never from here the river looks like glass

VII: DODGY ELECTRICS OR ELSE

Du musst Caligari werden…mutters old Dr. Crow beaten to the pavement outside The Swiss Centre Leicester Square London England Europe collapses in fetid heap beneath a crowd of rabid soccer hooligans – its the Curse of The Great Og Dogon re-live your nightmares wailing banshee torture chamber taught a lesson dead broken fool stroll on banned salutes molten celluloid text of montages sliding doors priests’ holes decaying plaster rusty bedsprings Raquel picks up the pieces wordsearch wizard always a bit of scatterbrain deep in the basement of The Trocedaro and The Hot Wok Club fast film fast food fast times tell it to de judge here come de loose hand gang rolling isolated from outside world done up as Cinderella in a Black Cab stink bombs down drain next door to Fry Rite the girl (looks just like Ellen Barkin in Sea of Love) chants hypnotist from hell! Got me under his spell! Hiegh-ho some scene like The Blizzard of Ooze meets The Wizard of Id pouting bee-stung apocalypse all Doo Wop and Hula-Hoops hanging out at The Golden Fish Bar Take Away massive sign reads THE FUTURE HAS ARRIVED ON ROUTE 220 transcendental noo age experience at Patisserie de Light no more no less multi-gym and sauna dirty streets talk mobile escape from Borstal fine head of hair frizzed by the dodgy electrics or else we wanna know the reason why gotta keep my hand in that nostalgic flea-pit music really gets you right here hard shoulder suede dreams bobbins and beads supplies grand illusions strange attractions and there was a – and there was – and there was – needle stuck – and there was — silence over the moon river sick as a parrot screams NEVERMORE don’t call us we’ll call Eve Ferret Tourist Annie Jumpin’ Mad Jack Gordon Screamin’ Lord Bosphorus Goldie Hawn jumps through burning hoop perfectionist not sure where to turn looking real good for the money eat your heart out take da heat out of those home video howlers

VIII: EXHAUSTED NIGHTLIFE

Electrodes nematodes high brow hi tech hi fi hi down hi mom hi dad hi everybody hi life dead screaming windows world of splintered frames smoky basement venue maids of dishonour dreaming “My body is a sign tattooed in Space,” thought Amanda falling backwards into a giant vat of molten metal alien-style chestburster cheated in last minute sacrifice misquoting Octavio Paz (“Space is a body tattooed with signs” A Draft of Shadows, 1974) film running in my head now grainy shots of Cuban Missile Crisis strange many splendoured decor midnight light fantastique sheer deaf mute death row line up blockbuster of a lifetime street of shame hotel with no name on the game lost world shrouded in mist Lago Maggiore looks like glass politics of death nail thru head horribly hilarious another plague of Hairy Huggy Trolls vinyl cape stand-up collar bewitching boutique fiendishly funny walks spooky tricks and treats tubular artistes panting pouting Penthouse pussies on parade line up backs to the wall reggae background delirious but deeply deluded hand round old photographs incriminating negatives bloody kids right up my nose camera lucida killer pictures snuff movies snot funny rough and tumbrel pied pipers demolition men light fires hammer walls mortar cracks new skyline in five minutes even seconds had my number Spider Girls Asian Gangsters amber clouds white dred dead heads Jack assaulted by giant blind cave fish gasped Brad didn’t stand a chance no questions asked lucky break lucky strike images of aging gigolos exhausted nightlife call for futuristic beauty vile style junk journalism fast track TV parade masculine focalization at every opportunity not at all correct headlines from nameless slivers of broken glass its just so easy to stop caring dreadnought sinks with all hands steaming mainline images future cataclysms distant bar room piano

IX: CROSS MY HEART AND

Clear blue skies picturesque swirls white cloud et voila! Post-voidal dribblings take your pick cross my heart and name your price dig deep cold water fish hot spicy wings tinkling ivories only finest private oh so private effect zone ends discover new world of blood-soaked banshee spectre in 1959. Party poppers Pizza Hawaiians untold benefits regular fries cold gray platforms deserted alleyways secret labyrinth ancient footpaths cutting at strange angles through suburbia roof tiles slipping away kak kak kak bow wow wow ha ha ha sunk without trace endgame creatures gaping jaws death in the fast lane expanding inner space UFO crashes into church spire sign of the times high in the sky ring dem bells wot a giveaway lyrical extravaganza exploding mirrors soaring strings don’t cry for me hara-kiri cherry blossom floating worlds philosophy slips away Y-Fronts adrift aged codger falls asleep at cafe table cruel Britannia stroll by stroll on stroll off roll on roll off roll up roll up poppy knot itty bitty critters glow-in-dark fiendish fingernails fright-lights slime-in-a-tub witches noses luminous hands emotional striptease oompah oompah stick it up your whooppee cushion Birth of Venus shower-curtain Lavazza disco divas itsy bitsy dotty thong dayglo fishnets high heels cheap perfume nips and tucks blue hair gilded nipples black leather fingerless gloves grubby green jacket UK Subs badge ears pierced in seven places lips nostrils you name it Bovver-boots harlequin plasma clear blue skies so anyway I said cross my heart an’ hope against hope against messy scandals with a cast of thousands tabloid high jinks and your number’s up matey roll on roll off exploding mirrors in cloud filled valley far away eh funny

X: STICKY FIXERS

Peculiar cast of features flushed straight down London’s new tube desolation overload well that’s life cabin class travelers battered suitcases can’t wait to get home sheeting rain cloudburst falling leaves flash floods the monstrous Og Dogon licked its blubbery lips pulled out a giant handkerchief of splintered skulls poor Bruno and Tony charity shops up in flames new lease no premium one million plus horror-pops jackpot multi-purpose sticky fixers I was dazed phased and quite frankly amazed sand and shot blasted to hell and back might be then again might not c’est le monstre Og Dogon zut alors glistening illuminated facia continuity breaks down limp banana skin torn bus ticket train overshoots platform obscene graffiti cracks in cohesion ground control to major disaster galactic penal colony treadmills rats in cages pale blue pathetic irony waves of nausea acrid stink of yellow death ghastly ghostly garden giggles on the first day I got locked in the toilet all I remember – have you heard of Borley Rectory? Burning stars full satisfaction or money back tense nervous headache knife boys gay dreams pale wasted faces etched in train windows white style multi-reflections ultimate collide with radiation relic in new twist collage Action Girl takes off Aristoc Body Shaper brooding twilight gee honey I shrunk the Queen Loopy Lou meets Lucy Lastic urban shoot-out smashed-out guitar solo from The Barking Psychos buncha berks in snot-stained bandanas drugs barons commit suicide as copters fly in low over jungle giant aircraft carrier slides up Suez Canal acrid stench of machine plastic menace back row can’t see from here no more no less slice of the action girl arrives at last but just too late to save the planet oh well you win some you lose some

XI: OPAQUE YUK

Killer vidz kidz prole models news opaque garde toi drown in mud and giant Tabasco Cajun disco so I make my debut on Hungarian TV next week that is unless I’m cut or half-cut he he delighted to be voted TRUCK OF THE YEAR 93 digitally remastered Living Shadow Number Nine persistent offender ecstasy tragedy quark gluon quack mambo mumbo jumbo soup manic street raunchy crunchy-topped steaming screaming wheelslip why don’t you just burn up and die? Two weeks of like chaos y’know Dotty Dawg Betty Boop Ditty Bop Daffy Duck Teeny Weeny Tiny Tots Choo Choo Cha Cha Zsa Zsa Iddle Twiddle Polly Wally Widdle Niddle Dippy Dotty Loopy Droopy Lucy Lastic Eeny Meeny Tiny Teeny no friends of mine super semi-quasi four year life-span exact distance from Earth unknown eight billion light years and behold Canes Venatici Red Shift 4.9 yuk light rain on rooftops yuk gemme outa here yuk come-as-you-are yuk kicking and yuk screaming yuk mix of high octane glamour yuk sniveling prats yuk break in break out break dance break down yuk hip yuk hop gasp rip yuk rap and yuk I don’t mean yuk that as a complement ankle chewing back biting dirty tricks transfigured nightlife yuk gerrem of again I see your hair is Borley Rectory burning ghosts in the woodwork and a machine gun in a state of grace yuk The Sheik of Araby did Victoria Fall? Are you electric? Do sheep shrink? Are Gnus Opaque? We ask ze questions no news is good news so keep watching cracks in sky giant locusts gas planet alarms built as a shrine data dump in timeshift never-neverland live and die shadow of your former selves on every multiverse return ticket quantum signature tune whistle in bath eccentric old timer out in woods carves strange figures sees loathsome entities in dead branches faint rustle of dry leaves…

© A C Evans

                                                            A Twilight Zone Chiller

Oh yes, I am the agent.

The agent from Renegade City.

Dazed and distracted I recall my former life:

Blood orange sands smoke trails shapes of infinity darker side of iconography origin of sexual differentiation – this is very much a personal statement

I stood resplendent in polyester in a series of Fellini-esque entertainments filigree solarised film footage seemingly straight portrait of underlying action knowing genre piece spectacular effects kick ass lotsa love… now you begin to look like an eerily atmospheric cult movie from the sixties. This is mission critical.

Highly polished twilight zone chiller beautiful colour negative images ethereal visions strange telekinetic powers pulverising visceral energy truly terrifying emotionally charged engrossing fantasy elements bathed in dramatic Technicolor inserts excruciating jokes nudge-nudge humour central premise revitalises well-worn amnesia device with expressionist lighting

Unable to cope with accidental death but retaining the style of the original I fell into the arms of a vengeful Hispanic street gang tribe of down-at-heel Puerto Rican hookers took refuge in the sewers captive zombies rebelled using experimental methods to bring them back into the night delighted to welcome an acclaimed singer-songwriter paranoid outsider looking for inspirational source of new album sing back the symbols enter through a mirror tricks me into drawing cross and curve with bandaged hands

Intriguing striking mysterious haunting theme soundtrack set on location in Renegade City: impressively photographed fanatical guerrillas huge gold doorway leading to modern day troubles detailed black and white sets words from all twenty-four books stunning use of graphics intelligent ambitious key example of avant garde poetic metaphors traditional training rituals courtship marriage greed life-power-money original tinting and toning

In the throes of new lusts dying multi-billionaire explores opposing cultural worlds teenagers who like Salsa and Carmelita’s monologues women’s prison films (subverting stereotypes of mature ladies and post-modern men) complex subjects of social identity what exhilarating nerve what a dazzling display of sheer zest comic romantic melancholic drawn from space-age pop dawn of hi-fidelity original talent dark companion showcase high end audio reproduction indispensable veers from surreal hilarity to political upheaval and back again

Zillion trends in hi tech jinks with gangs of twatted clubbers lurching about like idjuts to unfashionable springy rhythms neon-lit underworld sea of love spiritual journey through Hell On Earth

A glossy comeback vehicle no more editing with razorblades no more quirky signals etched on walls no more lonely soul-searchers ruthless specialists in military flesh piercing long-fingered aristocratic fops Celtic daydreamers potential suspects celluloid visions of secret agent or menaced doppelganger involving themes of fun hugs and cuddles, sexuality and violence just watch our jet-set gaucho zoom into overdrive

Where’s the supernova?

Sombre skies link dotty monologues drag performances over the top production numbers drugs booze and drive-by shootings peek inside the editor’s war room complete with quantum beam splitter and a cornucopia of collectable rarities try impersonations with improvised dialogue sharp cruel witty no more pimply street-boy types just examples of red-hot live merchandise a solo performance until the cops show up and follow a group of women who set sail in a Chinese junk seeking adventure new life far from this shrieking abrasively satirical foray into wanton abandonment crazed family abducting stray refugees incorporating them into Golden Age of Hollywood shock

Echoes of mad interviews packed with astonishing revealing moments

Spaced out like a toothpaste commercial projected over dark intimidating housing complex we immerse ourselves in an amazing neural world exhibiting flare to spare and aural clichés holding this thing together is Leon Theremin’s Ether Wave an all-too-regular feature rising to the forefront of memory unusual poise pizzazz playful provocative tip toeing along Boulevard Haussmann skirting the middle of the night neatly tongue-in-cheek outlandish costumes neither sympathetic or understated script dense awash with arty French movie tropes revealing the killer a young violin player

Back from the land of the dead like the poet who knew too much I arrive on Bitch Island grim cyberpunk world desolate wasteland populated by a few anguished young men looking like Pasolini threatened by environmental disaster and loops of Barbara Streisand songs amplified soundtrack roll call of the great and gorgeous no plonkers no chaser standard situation indefinite TV self-portraits lots of silent black and white photography

(We have been working on this since that mid seventies first feature about a young woman bored with her boyfriend smashes violin sucked into universe of downmarket noir features with the all the hallmarks of knee-jerk gore this means we reassess our future

Visions of irrational netherworlds suppurating ecstasy pleasure-pain downtrodden masses thousands of extras unforgettable hunger trendy interiors classic seductions Antipodean disco-dancers showcased in epic productions watch the crowd go crazy depth emotional insight vast international nuclear conspiracies mixing politics with myth and fantasy these were both our strengths and weaknesses plus my poetic fascination for the interplay between inanimate objects sinister metamorphoses split screen contrast situations and the dark malevolent tone of the post-war Absurdist tradition)

Meanwhile on the far-out fringes of ‘the permissive society’ lurks an irreverent humour explicit material which may offend some viewers with luck and a fair wind hey ho precipitating usual yuppie nightmare of young Manhattan literary agent pushed ‘over the edge’ into the whip-cracking world of a wicked dominatrix plastic clients prowling through labyrinth of rooms acting out grotesque parody of undercover secret society pain humiliation so-called double-agents lurk in corners elaborately montaged astute media manipulators can you have the rock without the roll the swing without the…

In Europe nothing has changed steam still splutters from the pool leitmotivs rain down from the sky in gay abandon buildings are old dirty magnificent stylish and dramatically allegorical I erupt into frenzied bloodshed over two hundred locations two thousand costumes elements of a giant fresco running time three hundred minutes with intermissions to allow for sinister moves towards our hero a local boy scene a remote country house where Gladstone spent many a weekend researching The Estranged Attractor background modelled on vague vista-vision cosmopolitanism celebrated climax at the Royal Albert Hall as a bunch of hard-nosed space-marines pitch headlong into a web of extracts from Rimbaud’s poems a network of cross-border kidnapping and one of the best loved British thrillers

Naked as tortured emotion

Singing symbols back to front round and round all places the poet used to visit on the run in London one of most terrifying moments in current drama not so much a search for the East more a deflation or ‘deconstruction’ of big time aspirations as he festered underground in Mrs Scarlett’s Rooming House Camberwell dosser’s paradise brilliant new wave language of verbal colour criminal love paraphrase of maybe/maybe not rewrites off-cuts personal memories found objects old bus tickets possibly work of self-objectified fashion-conscious metro-centrics excavating rich vein of neo-Dadaist humour cheeky enterprise harsh times something for everyone skipping through chance encounters semi-abstract associations old punk style ‘no wave’ link-ups with cool jazz

We can never know the answer we can never express the dynamic like an assassinated poet on acid oddly life-affirming oddly oddball familiar faces well worn amnesia device another nice one make you sound like one of last year’s top media personalities

Series takes off uncompromising production design externalising desire warped limits orthodox syntax in equal measure farthest reaches final frontier unearthly terrain mapped out by intrepid explorers of inner space alienated outsiders yes we are at the outer limits of representation folks from the sublime to the ridiculous forget those arty classics rediscover the night with its needlepoint of stars just die for this one brooding visuals heavy head-nodding deep breaks obscenity charges baton charges Goth girls with attitude sinking Chinese junks trippy paraphernalia grief murder dark electro feel months of planning now we can all kick ass lotsa love…

Wailing gnashing teeth true variety style trash stunts back into cinematic night moves comic songs dirty plates juiced up vibes deranged hobos mad tender dark suicides muggers lounge lizards killer docs nasty nerdy head-cases mouldering polemics lie detectors literate dramas wheels within wheels unspeakable obsessions boundaries of known pathology ignore the hype try not get too excited, even: holiday snaps and old home movies send strange signals to shabby weirdo stalker types unshaven smelling of dog’s piss levitating in back alley laundro-mat fear reflecting degeneration, just carry on dreaming.

Sublime gloriously textured hands in air recall my former life as a secret agent in drag orange sands visceral energy mirror trick melancholic dawn over cityscape– now, you tell us a story…did somebody say carry on dreaming?

© A C Evans