London Crash

Frenetic Cliques absorbed in mutually exclusive games, hoovering resources for fun and pay, doesn't matter anyway... The event horizon is narrowing, crenellated ring-fenced minds assuming projected self-images are truth, going down the Hole. London is caught in a Repeat-Loop of unprecedented proportion, a retro-fitted remix culture going nowhere faster than ever before. Commercial interests rule, if you can't pay you can't play. The flood is coming, ripples on the moonlit sea wash the island free. We are caught on a prison island, the gate of Westminster decides who goes forward as the great white hope of the generation. Meanwhile the real people, they who for whatever reason did not swallow the program whole, keep their heads down lest they be lost. Slavery is encrypted here, hidden behind the capital letters on birth bonds, lost in small print on contracts, and tolerated for an 'easy' life. And the tide of aluminium empties keeps the streets crunchy underfoot, the party after party rinses care from the collective lexicon, the hangover is coming and no-one wants to know. I am dreaming of rolling hills, 3 mile walk to the shops, moving soil and placing stones nestled in a space where they cry out the memory of the life they once had. Birdsong not programmed by mobile phone chirrup, rising above the monoxide sump to oxygenate parts of mind here locked by environment and habit. Talking to the weather, the only clock the solarsystemical unwinding of time as I spend the infinite credits of potential wisely. No need to pretend. Simple. Honest. Reciprocal. Lasting. True.
I hope I can navigate there. It feels a long way away... wish me luck.