Benny Hill

Dreamt of the past, walking towards the stadium, through the old neighbourhood, and I see McMahon, in a plastic cubicle, looking at me, shrivelled in dust, by time.

Move towards the shadow, huge dude, to sneak back in, why does the past look so old now?

And mate, you never used to do this alone, did you?

Remember the people, the young people, just beginning, carefree, stupid, drugged with joy and the illusion of never ending time.

Bearded now, we talk of Brexit and diets, connected to eve’s apple, convincing ourselves that we are not alone.

Spoiler mate, we are, and you can’t put your arms around a memory, as Johnny used to say.

Our stadium is gone, and the manic youth of the past are the old men of today.

You didn't expect it to come around so soon did you?

And I have another question for you.

Do you remember Benny Hill, and what we did to him?

I remember.

And if you don’t know what I'm talking about, you’ll get it, in time, if you’re still here, and if you still care.

And that’s it for today, as the buzz outside reminds me that the day is almost done, and I haven’t even opened my blinds yet.

Yes Instead of What?

By: Rorshach 1004

Date: 1st February 2016

Whenever I want to feel down, I can go down town, to the site of nothingness, literally nothing I can walk, and watch, and buy a coffee from a Polish girl. I think she was Polish, but she could have been Ukrainian, or anywhere in the EU really.

She said milk. I thought she said mirror. The bloke next to me translated, thanks for that mate. He’s used to it. I’m not. I couldn’t understand a word of what she said, and so I said ‘yes,’ instead of ‘what?’

Why bother to communicate when ‘yes’ will suffice?

Yes, I’ll have the milk.

Yes, I ordered the toastie.

Yes, I’ll pay my bill, my taxes, and my funereal rites.

But no, I will not wait in purgatory.

The big no, reserved for the self, the others always hearing yes, the no a surprise, keep it to yourself.

This blog is purgatory you know. Like town, it’s there, but what does it offer?

I have stayed away, and I feel good about that.

Return to nothingness is always painful.

A review of the latest 2000AD- Hero Pat Mills shouts, readers complain about ‘conspiracy’ stories their minds directly controlled by central government thought control Inc. 

The enslaved hate it when you talk about their chains. You will not go there. The man with a whip says it’s untrue, therefore it must be untrue. I have no chains. Why look for myself? I have far better things to do with my time.

Like?

Old Man Wolverine #1- Nothing to say, not going to try. Time travel genre, to change things before they get worse, revenge for future insults. Fantasy cult of personality, avoids the urgency of now.

Play here children. The house is on fire, but isn’t it so deliciously warm?

Why bother to play?

Childhood is over.

Endless rut of my own routine/perception wants me to stay, but I break away.

In purgatory’s circle you hear nothing, cept the sound of your own voice bouncing off the boomerang walls.

I used to live here, and stare at those walls.

Now I visit, and see where the dust grows.

Down town in the library, closed terminals, there’s a metaphor there.

Now nearer back home, the crumbling old Link Centre with new entrance system. Interior the same, access now modernised. Another metaphor? Something about modern change being on the surface level only? I suspect, actually, I know.

And I sit here complaining to purgatory thin Australian walls.

Hit this, back in my face, dull-hurts.

A joke played upon myself, for want of something to do.

It's okay.

Time slips away.

But I see the exit.

Oh look, a post in purgatory.

A stain on the wall.

Scratch and sniff?

I turn.

Leave.

Yes or What?

Ascending.

The image is from here: http://www.harthosp.org/InstituteOfLiving/AboutUs/OutsiderArtCollection/default.aspx?cHT=Laura%20Pierce

Swindon Town Centre (Purgatory Circle)

Been down town, to the same old places, familiar faces. The beard and beanie busker, strumming, ignored. The giggling teenagers, impressing each other with outrageous remarks at indifferent strangers. The overly polite shop assistants. ‘Can I help you?’ Not with anything of importance, no. The mentally ill man, shuffling, smiles madly to himself, creating reality out of the apathy in which he lives. Swindon town centre, you groan under the weight of your own insignificance. Your purgatory circle offers delay, a hamburger, rain and despair. There are no bargains here. Everything is for sale, but regret is the only thing that you have to offer.

*Photograph is of Richey Edwards (Manic Street Preachers) showing off his tattoo of Dante's Inferno.

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