16 July 2016

THE WOOLF IS AT THE DOOR

Westminster Cathedral flickers in the sunlight. The light of god? No. The dawn of false hope. Graduates entering the real world. Turn left for McDonalds. Right for Buckingham Palace. Inequality. Injustice. Incontinence. There is truly no 'I' in team.

A real man. An ordinary person. Quote.

"A crime's a crime, init?"

True. Truism. Fact. The same.

Streets. On the street. We vox. We pop. A man chomps paprika. Man crisps at large. The approach. The question. The answer. The whimper.

Chomp goes the crisp. Crisp gone. Words return.

'No.'
What?
'No.'
We move on. He does too.

Man greases hair with gunge in the sun. Chip fat in the hair. Sun glints off glass. Posh. Posh. Posh.

"A knife is a knife. Politicians are politicians."
So what?

Who knows.

"That's that."
Fact.

We found on Day One that irrespective of education people respond with the same inanities.

We came upon a nice young looking chap with education to the eyeballs. Swooning in the sun we fell in love. Descending with his drool. We enjoyed. Chill. Corruption in the illusion of an accent.

Authority. Schmooze. The smooth. Choke. Choke. Cough. Cough. Speech. Emissions. Omissions.

We listen back. The objectivity of an office. Eye contact erodes. The loss of ego. Charisma seeps out. Deception disappears. The recording. A voice alone. Bullshit. Words in the air. Disconnect. Loss. An absence where meaning used to be.

It transpires that the 'man-on-the-street' and the public school boy speak the same language after all. Only they intonate it differently. Thus, while Paprika Dave is left looking silly. Greasy boy talks like an aristocrat. Both utter the same meaningless platitudes.

Utterly fascinating, darling.


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