I: I KNEW SOMETHING

Was up when zapped by a glow-in-the-dark quasar star I head-butted a concrete pole anyway I’m a mind-warped post-modern pixel-junkie sing-it-in-the shower cool-wave future configuration all booze bra straps in-yer-face thingummies gutter romanticism frock horror burn-out junkyard hymns from the Institute of Grot financial instability twenties-style country house whodunit living in a bedsit above a kebab shop alone with my cat and halitosis. Saggy? Wrinkly? Blotchy? More E, vicar? Snores like a pig laughs like a drain smokes like chimney about as proactive as a dead slug. Sprawl on floor scoop jackpot hit bottle prank phone-call for fox sake gizza a firkin break sun don’t shine whole other level ramblings of pissed thirtysomethings hooked on freaks dwarves losers and psychos enlivened by bongo madness gettin’ your ass whipped loony toons a rickety pile of chairs: Revenge of the X-Babes – buncha schlocky schmucky tarts from Acid Heaven home of The Estranged Attractor. We need to reinvent metaphysics, we need – “you’ve mussed up my hair and you’ve mussed up my life!” screamed The Madonna of Darkwave, Our Lady of Pain, The Honcho of Hooch, it’s the full tabloid malarkey (ner ner, ner-ner ner!) followed by an excited little twerp with a tape recorder (heh heh!) and a tongue stud (hooray!). We can and must act in The Void beautifully gratuitous timeline designer death. It’s a baaadass life. Many are called

II: BUT FEW ARE CHOSEN

Where have I heard that before? Meet the poets from hell: Mongolian barbecue nail-biters dark ecstasy death-kick delay merchants – infertility racism civil war drop out of the world meltdown of The Self…junk dross trash…gawd…I hit the button… rattling chains bleeding nuns alien souls not avant-garde more Avant-Goth season’s skirt sweet smell of excess into the implosion with a case of Newky Brown don’t want people to think I’m a slapper wot a twat peel here for the nickelodeon. Sickening whiff of dying ambassador results offset we’re not going to infinity we’re going to flick through De Sade’s photo album of sozzled stars (zip up fatty!). Tower bearings stiffening truss-hangers lust fire-bugs sobbing gobbing spitting chips he kicked my dog to death emergency games-station living on borrowed time The Lords may rule…The Lords may burn stratospheric answer wild money digital business on track BMX boys in drive-by shooting she was ‘one of the lads’ dematerialised by a quantum entanglement in murky woods/ misty moods thinks have faith get that professional edge it’s not every day you see a pop star in Blackpool lavish showbiz parties free tickets for Starlight Express new energisers underwear should only be black. The now-frenzied fireman beery brash and bawdy runs into a severe dressing-down from Doris Karloff no less it was a blueprint for The Dark City so

III: STICK NO FRILLS

Head for the tunnel of hate scratch your bottom in the bath don’t try this with a piranha it’s The Full Monica with incredible TV spin-offs help save the planet men at risk ‘crash course for the ravers’ read riot act sitting in this dingy room gazing into middle distance surrounded by craggy-faced Crocodile Dundee types and cinema verite studies of The Angel Tube asinine even desperate but weirdly likeable (yippeeee!) pumped-up micro-blonde end-of-pier charm one-hit-wonder bleeping beside my bed boosts sales her larger-than-life personality dulcet tones and war correspondent connections are just what we need to exit mainstream far out far flung far field far away looks far away time oiling wheels stroke of fortune blankety-blank blank blank bricolage decollage (oops!). Nothing. Wicked, wicked, wicked. Tired out? Wired up? Hired ‘n’ fired? Screamin’ powerhouse communications? Fat nuts? Deaf to the world I lurched down The High Road to The Desolation Gateway. Oooh how could I? Black ‘Elle’ bag pert little eat sleep drink go, go, go. Fell off a stool in Frumpps Wine-bar long way from Albert Square what a lark are we in Kansas? No way. Is this desire? No way. She was a true

IV: TWENTIETH CENTURY GIRL

A futuristic beauty a swinging dolly with va-va-voom body language and cutie-cutie babydoll looks so I gulped down a Chinese Lantern slipped in a Birdy Breeze Block kicked the gong around dragged out my bi-stretch zip-suit my eighteen carat gold-plated rope-chain my up-to-the-minute zig-zag top my two split skirts with loop backs all-over sequins padded micro-fibre hips flared detachable snaffle bars luxury unisex fleece-wraps and chain-link razor-wire rocket lamps. The outfit was permanent and painless it had titanesque surreality and plenty of eyesores if you know where to look for them. I knew the Estranged Attractor lived in phased-out space yo-yo-ing up and down round and round here there and everywhere turn on ball of foot derisory ruthless laugh overcast sky in walked this canny old wizard sorta like Gandalf the Grey in an ankle-length sixties maxi-coat rainbow path (night was falling) dilapidated caravan two dish aerials take out the guesswork open the candy box phone the signalman read a good book cut a long story short they blew their minds nervous tick tock tick tock tick tick tick…and Booooom! Jet Wash Here no drama school for scandal g-g-g-git off git up git out git going git it in your soul angel polished my windscreen. Somewhere questions were asked. Frosted grass early morning head in noose hint of desperation such modesty butters no parsnips. Stumped humped thumped and a

V: FLASH OF WHITE LACE

So marvellous the creamy swell hissing Walkman trouser turn-ups burning up up and away hey keep behind the line as if by magic (those junkyard hymns) watch out live rail explodes mysterious numbers pornography of public obscenity pylon legs low buildings steps up grass bank darkened colonnades escalator of love secret life of multi-storey car parks empty back-streets high rise phantasms spectral walkways spiralling into the gloom flooded fields distant trees still waters so deep so deep…the last of the first the first and last in first out multiple reflections fabulous black girls go wild ‘on the corner’ hard hats woolly hats muddled thinking ancient monuments ‘Lou Lou’ (Paris, 1987) by Jean Loup from Nouvelles Images S.A. private call arty grammatical errors distant crump of mortars disposable nappies reduced role for role model baggy pants grungey looks final warnings now you’re really for it. We drive East blah blah blah acid lizards freak me so slop out tune piano fill in form. Bandy legs? HP Sauce? Drop the dead doo-dah-thingy-wotsit you know who down town tonite welcome to Planet Clairol damn your insolence wolf whistle boats rocked marbles lost lids flipped upset applecart nitrate hotline blah blah bah bah black sheep big deal lambs to the slaughter stench of death a lifetime a stream a river a backdoor babe corpsed exquisitely on demand. It was a technicolour

VI: DREAM FRACTAL AFFAIR

With grit in the knickers you name it we’ve got it a voice a Dalek in a wheelchair a 3D Noddy and a whole world of amusements. In walks Grantly ‘Car-wash’ Nelson from The SFO aka Suspicious Flying Objects dept. friend of The Tabernacle instant win lounge lizard pool pothead from the potty Pot Shop (batoum!) looking both ways escapades in city and other famous hotspots what sort of mind dreams that up as a party piece? On the Sharon (Stone) right away bolt hammer flu victim and Boiiiiing! Here we all are in a purpose-built mansion, a ‘Pink Palace’ in Theydon Bois where else? Hand-finished winter special walkabouts true taste magic moments wah-wah sirens smooth security patrols apocalypse coming lend a hand! Sharp smashing rave-up scenarios impervious to damage uncertainty of chance leather jacket Pavlova’s dogs. Discover her secrets her minimalist Z-up meet the stars outrageous under fire musical comedy touch and go would you/wouldn’t you say ‘yes’ to the odd meaningless encounter. Pass it on. One-legged pervert vanishes into the night. A spiritual healer visits the lads at North Greenwich Tube next to The Millennium Dome – they wrap her round a Yamaha R1 100 and start messing about with spanners and ratchets back of crane-grab bin liners worn over cycling shorts just the thing flowers of fire sombre skies. The Lords may rule…The Lords may…grope case doc adds touch of bizarre glamour to

VII: THE CEREMONY

Watching open mouthed as in walks Pris the Replicant eaten alive (official) wave of window-smashing. A navy diver dressed as a woman electrocuted by an arcade machine grabbed her buttocks and asked “Are you allright ma’am?” Don’t say prawn say Goldie Hawn. Don’t say phone say Sharon Stone. Old Paradise Street no thoroughfare and another thing solve the riddle read the book hallucinate a frog on a bog. Catch the buzz. Where are you? Actually I bought this in Ibiza at Popcorn Utopia a pop cornucopia next to Acid Heaven – hot-pants little shorts catsuits faux-femmes on borderline array of jocks smorgasbord of beefcake goosey-goosey gander homophobic nutters forbidden grooves and hands-in-the-air anthemic chart choons trail of destruction left by loony lodger on run from one-off party night ‘ceremony’ happy hour mystic crafts crystal balls and tarot/ rune consultations the ultimate in stylish hidden agendas descent into colourful language (zoinkkkk!!!) no chaser. Off centre nympho purist dressed up like a big shot launched in a blaze of glory but feeling like a strand of overcooked spaghetti I ran through a hundred positions cobbled courtyards shadowy cloisters clink and you’ll miss it re-mix the night sounds morbid but it’s beautiful just beautiful. I spoke out was branded a jam roly-poly treated like a piece of shit by the goons on the door told to die young stay pretty unassuming incorporate reverse geometry of doomy displaced urban settings. Love my platforms. Am I a wave? Am I a particle? I live on borrowed time…The Lords may…zapped by a –

© A C Evans