These days I either seem to be going to sleep or waking up; the surreal dreamscape in the middle is something I can comprehend in my guts, it is the bookending decadent and media-sodden so-called reality that I have a hard time speculating on.
In the early hours of the morning the man two floors upstairs howls rhythmically, reaching a squawking crescendo, like an amorous carrion bird. A lone voice wailing at life in the middle of the night. Every night. He is either spanking the proverbial monkey wrapped in sandpaper, using a baseball bat wrung with barbed wire to flagellate, or is a real clumsy sonovabitch. His irrational and antisocial need to bellow his ecstatic or agonising convulsions come from deep inside his emotional jungle within.
I, on the other hand, feel an overwhelming and deep-seated pyromaniacal urge to somnambulistically knock on the dire jizz-monster’s door and lob a Molotov cocktail in through the crack to put him out of everybody’s misery. Preferably, my projectile of choice would be a Finnish named street fighting weapon that has been forced full of styrofoam and left to marinade like the most murderous of booze for months on end. The styrofoam breaks down and when ignited by the paraffin becomes something akin to homemade napalm. Do not ask how I know this, just file it away under, “Useful Information In Case of a Zombie Apocalypse,” or a spectacular way to hand in your notice.
I can just see the man flailing about his immaculately dusted living room, covered in flames, knocking over and inadvertently setting light to his collection of Japanese artificial vaginas, dripping bronzed flesh coloured plastic onto the floor. The excess heat sets off the in-built nanobot fire cloud that sprinkles down upon the gimp masked figure; wetting his third degree burns; soothing his scarred cheeks; transforming the balm of sensitivity into a whole world of erotic sensation for him to plunder.
Keep the fucking noise down, please!” I hiss at the glistening figure, all foetal on floor.
If he turns out to be some suffering handicapped guy with bed sores, I am really going to Hell for this one.
And that, my fellow travellers on the crooked path of righteousness, is the jungle. If you have made a snap instinctive judgment about me based on your reading of this piece, that is the jungle working. The jungle is where all opinions swing through hysterical trees of the imagination; where political inclinations hunt to eat the raw flesh of their adversaries; where overreactions screech and rage in the dead of night; where revenge is plotted in the overturning of rocks.
The jungle is far stronger than I, and all experience is first filtered through its dark and strangled vines. I have given the jungle a name to separate it from the me that seeks peaceful solitude; the me that does not desire to procreate with any female with all the oat-sowing curves in all the right places; the me that rejects the creating of entrapping and nervous behavioural patterns. Atheists wish to rid the world of the irrational fall-out of the jungle in an ironic attempt to deny evolution; the fanatically religious dwell in their own self-created hut tapping on coconut shells in the hope that the jungle will answer.
Yet, the jungle has saved and enriched our lives many times over.
Ever frozen just when an extra step would have meant certain death?
Ever wondered why the greatest technological progress has been made during states of war?
I am not here to bring you cheap answers, you foolish fellows; only questions.
Do not ask me such things.
Silence is golden.



The heat of the unbearable last-ditch Indian summer has now metamorphosised into a cool and damp autumn, and as the soothing sound of the polluted and bitter tasting downpour outside is making me want to pass urine, oh my treacherous and parasitic readers, I feel myself slipping into a daylight reverie …
I awake in my frozen bed on a wintry Monday morning to a tapping and buzzing at the window of my 4th floor apartment. It is the reverb whirr of a mail drone bringing me the two small bottles of liquid THC with added vitamin C, for my electronic vapour cloud cigarette, that I ordered just six hours before gripped in a moment of The Fear as I realised that my vapourised ganja supply had been inhaled to its natural end. Increasing middle-aged arthritis is the stabbing cross I have to bear until the clean blood rejuvenation process becomes affordable for us neoproles. On the sideboard, I hear my HAL 9000 smart device turn itself on, as it senses my body functions have gone from dormant to active, and I reach over and grab it, feeling it vibrate an affectionate greeting in my palm.
Morning, Dave,” it purrs.
I climb over my bed and wrestle the window open; the drone inches forward, scanning the distance to my sticky right hand, then deposits the two bio-degradable plastic bottles into it. My device goes ping!, to signify that the funds from my DopeCoin cryptocurrency account have been successfully transferred and with the transaction finished, the drone answers “Merci de votre confiance” before it whirrs off into the morning to take some synthetic laudanum to the old gent down the road with Parkinson’s disease.
If I had not had enough cash in my DC account, the drone would have asked me thrice to place the bottles back into the dispenser and if I had not complied by thirty seconds after the third request, it would have retrieved the bottles with the help of its in-built taser and grab claw. I would be convulsing and scratched; a blackened mess on the floor while it alerts both the emergency and security services connected to my address, sending a video of the abortive transaction to the relevant offices for evidence of my misdemeanour. I would then be charged for wasting time, transaction fraud and my DC account frozen for three months.
A fair trade is preferable. I don’t think my ailing corpse could stand yet another tasering; with my knees, I just can’t hobble like I used to.
Arf. Arf.


“And next up on EVERYTHING IS AWESOME News, Molly Typhoid’s Art – a cornucopia of vulvic delights, or a step too far?”

EIA News – Coming to a future near you

Fucking shoot me in the face like a rabid dog before I explode into a bloody mush in a hail of expletives, bile, rotten liver and a fine spray of fermented testicle juice.
Too late.
The farce with which our corporate and government controlled media feeds us with digital imagery and newsfeeds designed to “inform“, entertain and pacify us while fucking our psyches from behind like a once nostalgic BBC personality at a children’s party is truly astonishing. Just as the manga cartoon-ish and friendly sign for CCTV cameras at the local train station reads – For Your Tranquility – while the spying device ejaculates fluorescent tear gas into your eyes; blinding you to the fact that any evidence for its contribution to our protection is sorely lacking. It probably doesn’t even contain film.
The illusion of “choice” between media muppets and trends is a goddamned insult. And we fall for it. We forget that they are merely the grotesque clowns of a status quo that is getting increasingly obvious in its contempt of all those deemed beneath them, especially those neo-proles among us with new ideas above our ignorant station of a diet of fast food and even faster staff turnover. Real choice is sacrificed over the smokeless non-carbon emitting barbecue of consumerism.
The propaganda wing of those engineers of society wants to control our opinions and means of expression, and do it through ideological advertising. Thought is controlled by linguistic expression, and language is being manipulated with meanings far beyond its dictionary definitions and the facts of history. If you think that a single race, class, political view or gender has perpetuated the most abhorrent crimes down the annals of time, well, Bud, I guess you have never left the comfort of your square mile radius for anything other than the daily commute to the nuclear plant and seeing your sister giving birth to your own irradiated cyclopean mutant offspring. If you think that our jungle need for territory, power and a tribe is going to vanish in a puff of dry-ice at a rave, then you are running into the bouncy wall of an asylum for the disappointed. Conformity is the new rebellion, ain’t you heard, you positive-self-image-mouth-breathing mofo?
Art. Capitalist. Spiritual. Misogynist. Racist. Clickbait. Nazi. Anarchist. Zen. Obese. Socialist. Hate. Fascist. Homophobe. Love. Transphobe. Libertarian. Lifestyle. Democracy.
Some of these are incendiary words, verbal Molotov Cocktails, politically designed to work on the emotional centres of the brain and silence any rational debate, turning formerly intelligent people into hair pulling, wedgie giving brats shouting that anyone who disagrees with them has pooed in their social networking pants and should be sent straight to the gulag; the others are pacifiers to make you feel snug as you bury your head deep inside your recently bought Norwegian llama haired duvet while paying for your overpriced rented hovel. A society full of exulted, yet permanently offended, victims wallowing in their special snowflake status while picking on easy targets for offhand comments to get cheap morality points in a game gone horribly wrong. I envision a day where we can do nothing but LIKE, our hate buried deep down inside, forced to express itself in moments of extreme random violence while our cretinous laughter tumbles from our strangled mouths to the whooping doubleplusgood sound of LOL, LOL, LOL …
Take the word, “Democracy“.
How far from its origins has this word been debased?
Why is every attempt and technology to restore or modernise that original system, as imperfect as it may be, seen as a national or international threat?
The only reason I can see that so-called democracy still flourishes in the West is not out of idealism, nor practicality, but that someone somewhere is still raking in a serious quick buck. Once that someone, or group of somebodies, stops receiving their funnel of cash, it is only a matter of time until a militarised police force, drone assassinations and situations like Ferguson happen right outside our windows. Maybe they already are; bad times lurking like the seventies gangs of New York in The Warriors, all super hold gelled up hair and tazers; waiting for their moment to come out and play from the shadows.
It just takes one more nudge of a financial system hanging by its fingernails over the edge of an abyss, mesmerised by a plastic solar powered daisy dancing in the autumnal sunlight while repeating the mantra of “Recovery, recovery, recovery …
Time to stop ranting, scrape my-bloody-ballsed-self off the fake pine floor and remember …
“Have an AWESOME day, y’all. Now over to Macy for the weather and might I say that the future’s lookin’ just swell.”


I was woken up by a nightmare –
I was on an old bone white phone and down the other end was the pitiful screaming of a man being tortured. The man just screeched and wailed like a cow in a slaughterhouse waiting for its doom; bred to end its life consumed by fat adolescents who believe that meat is grown in a factory somewhere. One day, it will be, of course. And so, the man howled holy hell down the phone at me as if I could change anything, as if any of us could. I knew he was being tortured by the metallic background chuckles.

By who? Why? Am I being attacked by my subconscious? What have I ever done to him?

Okay, never mind.

I lay awake in bed, the echo of the man’s cries disappearing back from whence they came. The man’s bellowing had demolished my usual aching morning concrete erection, my own personal mediocre monument to vitality; to prove that I am not yet passed all hope and usefulness. Coffee. A large mug. I needed strong coffee with enough full fat cream to kill an anorexic at twenty paces. And honey. The last day’s work of a bee that has stung itself into extinction.
Shit, shower, shave; then wriggle into my black trousers, linen jacket and tie. Feed Tom, my perpetually angry and mewling cat; grab my bag and out the door to face the bastard day.

Above me I saw a cloudless sky giving birth to drones, spying on us while delivering a gadget or book or sex toy or all three combined into a sex gadget book toy thing with which to occupy the space and attention in the jungle of our limbic brains; keeping us from seeing the world falling apart over our obfuscating wearable technology.

On the train – a woman with a never ending cough – I just knew she had a government manufactured disease designed to manipulate our genes and keep us dumb enough to keep voting and perpetuating a system in its death throes, where every institution is stockpiling cash and financial assets in the hope that paper money will be worth more than tinder. Well, not me fuck face! I do not vote. Not until there is something damn well worth voting for. Genetic mutations, be damned!

It is no lie. These French people do stink. They stink of fear of inevitable change that is just around the corner; that they will no longer be able to rely on their government to solve their woes; that the nation of centralised bureaucrats that they have become will be swept away by technological tide edging over the corner of their phone screens.
Oh blockchain, save us from the turgid bureaucrats!, I mumble to no one in particular.