Above this enclave of polite conversation, ribs meet like lying fingers, gesturing at care for all our sad but glowing mothers, dignity for the men and women who tirelessly dig to the centre of the Earth, soft beds and widescreen TVs for the animal companions who never let us down, and loaves and fishes – vegetarian/vegan/gluten free options available as a matter of course, of course – for all our Biblical children. Voices rise like prayers and prices towards a glass ceiling that’s been papered over with last century’s good news, while here in the hall of mirrors, mirages and minor indiscretions, no one gives a f— for facts which are nothing but acts of self-representation anyway. Above the level of police consideration, bribes are meat and drink to sticky fingers, riffling readies over desiccated bodies which reach hopelessly for ever more remote control. Vices grip like predators in the long grass, out where the still-breathing bodies are buried in the foundations of a new, imagined empire. With sincerity sourced from Ealing vicars and non-EU puppet shows, and blood-stained fingers wheedling in polite contempt, politic voices pledge to be level with us, to do their level best to level up, to keep a level head when the ribs crack and the ceiling comes tumbling down. A pause for applause but they’re already gone. Charity begins and ends in a tax-deductible second home.
Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor