Albion, Art, Life

Men at Work…

 

***

No signs like that anymore… It’s easier to stay at home in winter… Come spring and summer… Not so much… Mog and Hesk came round once… On their way to a party… Ah, the art of parties… Not something that should be inflicted on a sensitive soul… The art of noise likewise… Smoking fire-sticks and drinking poisoned water… Leo said… And he was spot-on… But how to accommodate such torture… Maybe the Aboriginal Australians are right… We have already died… And gone to hell… The spirit leaves the body… The body becomes heavier… Ceases to function…  And starts… To decay.

***

We used to laugh at the Russians… Queuing for bread… And the East Germans… In their Gulags… And now look at us… How did it come to this?… Nothing happens without intelligent design… And no one does anything… Without a reason… The reason may be obscure… It may be… To all intents and purposes… Unfathomable… But there will be a reason… Merrydown Cider was a particularly potent poison… And the poison of choice on many a cold evening… It was… For a few brief hours… In the company of Ms Merrydown…  Almost possible to entertain a measure of hope for mankind.

***

That, though, did not last long… Even at such a tender age… The class and status hierarchies… Were turning… Behind the scenes… And for what?… Everybody gets what they came for… And there’s time enough… For everything… Under the sun… Had we been aware… That the few meager freedoms we enjoyed… Were to be denied our children… Would we have brought them into the world?… Had we been aware that… We were being primed for… A mass social experiment… And that our very make up would be tampered with… Without our knowledge… Would we really have wanted to continue?

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