No Space (November, 2010)

All told the year they broke was all bang, vibrant colours on pixel acid. Three colours. Who knew what they could achieve, just they three? Sun-spots in heaven’s reception, the stubborn mule, so mauled: the secular Good. Fill the cracks; white paint; two coats not three; 1/3 off; inevitable crisis every generation blames the last and for living guilt free while we pay through the nose to anyone willing to part us from our silver. All bang. Put it on ice. Charlie sits in the jungle while the only cross ‘worth’ watching glares smiles soothes us placid from ITV. Channel 1 to 5 only natural to land on 3 in the land of vapid moderation. Or is it on 1? So hard to tell with eyes that see. Pixel acid. Yessir. I know a teacher. Good teacher. One of the best. The kids have changed, see. Remember the last pop culture Satan? Punk and TV. Primed and ready, peak of their careers, spitting and raving, killing the LP, killing the book. Like a young Ali before “no Vietcong ever called me nigger!” Then came cables, like vines creeping into every room. So close we know so much, never need to ask a question again. No touch though. They’ve still not figured out electric touch. Safe for now. Poor ragged TV. Old, running to catch the train. Smoker in a clinical age. Lost in the 10 minute apocalypse. Click here for part II. Them kids man, I say. Different. Different to you and I. The brain wires up in new ways. Triangles crammed into a Circular education. Square buildings of course. Broken? Not all breaks are bad; nor good. Not all bad turn good or good to bad. Fissured wisdom, a plural sanity; even the fucked up Mad write in scores of horizons on the ‘page’. Ctrl S.          6/11/10

 

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