news reports from the CNNWTZ safehouse : photographic evidence of the finished master

. . . a flickering series of blurry images in the late of the evening . . . cement dust settling gently on a frozen breeze . . . frozen waves trapped in ice lining the banks of the silent lake . . .

. . . ‘field reports from the western lands’, the album, is officially now in a finished master state . . . sixteen pieces gathered into four movements, totalling almost an hour of new materials . . . [transmission fades] . . .

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trump after inauguration no.3

the sinister grin of the tangerine dictator beams out from hundreds of thousands of ornaments of servitude as toby keith sings his little ignorant, racist heart out… black lives don’t matter… mexican lives don’t matter.. muslim lives don’t matter… queer lives don’t matter… poor lives don’t matter… a military drone sails high above a group of protesters, soon to be hosed in pig fat and fed to the dogs…

if she wasn’t my daughter, i’d probably grab her by the pussy and have her urinate all over me, every single day; until my interest or her beauty waned… thousands of column inches of fake news spiralling up into the sky like an all-new vj day ticker-tape parade, making amurikkka great again… strange fruit, gang-rape on the mason-dixon, oil barons and daisy duke… shock and awe lighting up your world like the 4th july…

we the people, jet-washed in kerosene fuel… set fire to… a glorious barbecue for the one per cent… holy-wood liberals throwing their toys out of their prams from their ivory towers, private islands, fleets of vehicles and vessels… draped in gowns and jewels… carbon footprint of the rock gods forever shrouded in the fog of their celebrity… starving children too weak to idolise anymore…

let us hand you your next one hundred years… peak oil, famine, rising tides, the war for fresh water… military drones flying over war zones back home… black helicopters, riot police, terror and celebrity… your children were not born free… a greasy fat bloated ageing white man sitting naked in a leather chair, all belly-guts and body odour… greedily stuffing his fingers into the mouth of a young black girl in tears…

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modernity hymns no.1

…they aim to take the human out of humanity… side-line the mind for the digital program… make obsolete the human need to be… replace ‘i think’ with ‘iphone therefore i am’…

…they aim to take the civil out of civilisation… replace raw existence with political games… make every resource a number or a debt… turn every person into a code without a name…

…they aim to take the personal out of personality… replace a pretty face with an on-line profile… make every sweet encounter up and downloadable… turn serendipity into substance without style…

…they aim to take pleasure out of all that’s pleasurable… side-line spontaneity for controlled circumstance… make living destiny into something to be bartered… favouring precision over random twists of chance…

…they aim to take the sex out of sexuality… replicate the lover via screens and imagery… turn the fairy tale ending into a ticket with a price… choosing the photograph over wild fantasy…

…they aim to take the wonder out of all that’s wonderful… sanitise and synthesise the symptoms of the soul… and if religion couldn’t do it then science will have a go… blending human being into a meaning and a goal…

…they aim to put the modem into man’s memory… transplant experience into measured capacity… turning the world into a cold commodity… all in the spirit of progressive modernity… the result? devaluation in the currency of me…

…they aim to take the human out of humanity… side-line consciousness for the virtual dream… make null and void philosophy and poetry… replace ‘i am’ with a voucher to redeem… then replace the idle hour with a corporate regime….

– bianca laleh

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