The Wax Conspiracy

strange notes

Later, much later, it would become apparent just what was housed between those two slices of Forming. All we had at the time was a thin black booklet decorated with the blue circle on the front and, on the back, DC and the closest we would get to a manifesto.

Back to the present the only slices in sight were cut ragged across a chest, about thirty/forty centimetres too low for the lyrical trepanation needed to penetrate this lexicon devil. The joke was on the young ones who survived that night in December 1980, passing on a burn like it meant anything more than the hexadecimal ravings of a quasi-sub-fascist.

I know one of them young ones, offering up a rite of passage with the help of a packet of cigarettes discarded by some other low-life. Fucking ugly DeLorean dreams: that is to say, stainless steel panels glued to a fibreglass chassis. What a fucking sham.

No five year plan can complete that circle: no amount of hopping turnstiles, no degree of ugly haircuts. The untold oblivious nights of oblivion just point direct like an arrow at a lonely beggar boy with a death wish. And then John Lennon got shot.

Belvedere Jehosophat

Written on Monday, 25 March 2013

The Wax Conspiracy

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