Despite this I have repeatedly sold out to McDonald's, the Sun, the National Lottery, Harvey Nicks, etctrue. we are very squeamish about self-promotion though. we keep it very pure. its becasue we grew up
in the 'no sell-out' era of the 90s. hopelessly hobbled by outdated ideals
i like it too but it's a bit cynical and polemicalreally like this 1 jim sent me this morning
MOVE FROM DECAY
It’s hardly herculean;
the words are cream.
Burning plastic fruit swells into being. The maniac communist brat air
strikes a rubber gum; ordnance broken like a seal weathering out some ancient tide pool. Alright then against a maddening decrescendo. Just think what piecemeal vitality is clogging up the fuel lines staring back at a box switching releasing advertised personalities grinning families speeding towards their death like crash test dummies over broken ducts and gull wings. Now flounder off the pier head and make mine a double whisky / polish lager chaser. Nation on wheels humming a line; good copyright sold for goo? Policing human care deflecting baton glance, standing for off duty kebab host. White feathers on tarmac, Peregrine bombs the outstretched hands dog bolts the chain taught; pull back then pan out on full drone shot reveal. Spurts of musk pecoraite teeth full ice pink crushed spill-over mess of mine. Black harmonics rail on green woodpeckers trail the jet flats just ferry that freak out coming over with gripping pipe. Choice of so much brain spill sprouted out concerned with thoughts and feelings. The cult of the individual, see I’m doing it now. Whereas Beckett places you face against the wall and says ‘here it is, here is reality’ now you try to breathe now you’re stripped. Everybody owes, everyone one in debt. Each one sitting at the table analysing ‘culture’ times a thousand, or a thousand million. Enter the collective mind, the satisfaction of a life well lived. We will soon be there my dearest. Each one clinging to their own rock. Each one cured of depression by Charlotte and Emily Bronte running a hot batch through the heather. Scratched knees and insect bites feather the metal.
Better than science because it cannot be quantified; the literary life can be yours for 12 affordable monthly instalments. Allow it all; the vast morass moves on.
By chip light the lead singer hung himself. In order to remain embalmed in collective nostalgia we at least owe this guy a debt of gratitude. Splendid work. Splendid.