I bought some fertiliser
And the secret ingredients.
In the right amounts
I got my hands dirty
I’d got angry
With the forces of death
The forces of control
Things need to change.
When the bombs were ready
I filled my rucksack
Took a stroll
To a busy place
A soulless place
Where people slept
As they walked through greyness
Devoid of life.
I threw a bomb.
Earth, water, and the fire of life
Curving through the still air of the city.
There was no bang
No flash of light
Waiting for the rain to come
And free the seeds of secret fire
Bring life to lifelessness
Colour to greyness
Hope to the hopeless.
I’m living in a tiny wooden house, on a giant shelf, above another house. I access it via a wooden ladder. The house has my name on it. It’s at a bit of an angle, but I manage to get inside. It’s full of my stuff. Some local people who support me are helping me buy the place, and land to put it on.
I chat with TV graphics people about the roundness of alien spaceship interiors, then they land my house like a spaceship on a hockey pitch. They leave.
I go to the kitchen, and cook some food. The cooker is in a narrow street, and cars struggle to get past me. My dog moves the cooker for me. Knives and food drop onto the floor. I can’t stand to waste food. I carry on cooking. My granddaughter tells me to add some chicken stock, to keep the vegetables moist. I tell her to shut up or cook. She doesn’t want to cook. My son passes by, joking about how much free time I have. I tell him I’m working at one. He mentions that my jobs easy, like the crusades. I tell him to find out more about the crusades.
An aunt is visiting. She has an old book about the Lyme Regis water orb, a bizarre naturally occurring phenomenon. It fascinates me.
I sit on a sofa with a tramp, who, as we talk, gets cleaner, neater looking. He tells me about Scientology. He tells me to look for an eagle, an egg, a vegetable and a stone. They have some significance. My aunt told me something similar. He leaves. I’m alone in the house of my name.
I’m walking into town, thinking about cutting through a school, to get to a corner shop. A woman in a veil walks into me, I think by accident, until she dies it again, and speaks to me in Arabic. I explain I only speak English. Her name is Solqheen. She is originally from Tblisi, in Georgia. She chats to me about going to see her boyfriend doing stand up comedy. As she talks, she removes her veil, underneath she wears a short black velvet dress, and is all done up for a night out. I walk down to the gig with her. I’m not sure how much it is, and I don’t have much money.
I cross the road, and hold open the door of a police station, shoeless. Police file in, waiting to judge some new recruits. One recruit plays a toy trumpet, another came 3rd in a statistics competition. I put on my shoes and leave.
I’m inside a factory building, holding onto the back of a driverless Landrover, trying to stop it as it rolls down a slope, into a flooded room with water containers everywhere. I comes to a halt. My legs ache from the effort, and wading through the water.
I’m trying to access files on an old mac. The images and videos are stored on microfiche film, and soon melt and set on fire. We throw it outside, but manage to retain some data. Solqheen flirts with me. She’s trying to make someone else jealous. I put my arm around her and hold her close. We try to decipher an enigmatic poem in a frame.
I’m at outside with friends. We have a large box of Kellogg’s cornflakes. On the next table, pigeon fanciers chat. We begin to discuss pigeons. Could they deliver a box of cornflakes? My friend uses the phrase ‘mortal vampire’ to describe them. I like that phrase.
My friends spot a pretty woman over my shoulder. I look round, and realise I know her, as I pluck two very long hairs from my moustache.
She says hello, and we kiss. I make introductions. She walks off into a school building. We follow. I cut through a corridor into a balcony, and down some stairs. We hide in a toilet to avoid a crazy drug taker. He comes in anyway. My friends flee. I shake his hand. He thanks me for saying that his voice sounds like the Dalai Lama’s. I walk with him a bit. He sees my friends running away, and sprints off to catch up with them. I don’t fear him, I realise.
I pass a kid lay on the floor wearing a Mario hat. Another kid stops, mimes inserting money into an arcade machine, makes a game noise, and Mario springs up.
I walk into an airship, waiting for take off. I’m wearing my Dakar Audio Club stage gear. The business men inside are afraid of me. They are terrified the crazy drug guy will get on board. The pilot plans to leave early. I ask him to wait, my girlfriend will be dead on time. He takes off.
I’m now in a taxi. The violent driver offers to take us to several unsuitable, violent, places to stay, until the cancelled flight takes off tomorrow. He’s a racist. I grab his knife and threaten him. He doesn’t listen. I slash across his right eye. I have his attention. He nervously pulls a blank firing pistol. He stops the car, and I grab the pistol, shoot by his head, and throw him out. My friend takes the wheel.
We continue. I think I should learn to drive. We stop at a house. I sit outside with friends, making hideous collages of politicians faces.
A zombie apocalypse. I’m staying inn a safe place, a town where everyone works together to defend the boundaries. I won’t fight. I won’t support violence, even against the already dead. I feel bad. Guilty.
A new wave of zombies hits the town. I observe as people run to their posts. I don’t know what to do. I stand by a shop being used as a command centre. The defenders are over run, trapped on the wrong side of a deep, empty moat.
I wake up. I’m in shallow water. A beaver talks to me, tells me that there’s a blanket and a weapon nearby. A zombie stumbles from the undergrowth. I hit him with the pole. The beaver was an hallucination. I climb up the bank. Other zombies are nearby. Different. Mutated. I slip and slide into the bushes, jogging along a path, wishing I was fitter.
I meet others. Another safe place. Lots of vehicles parked together. The scene changes. Like a game I’m watching from above, I direct invaders, outflanking the defenders. Then I’m in the game, with an old workmate. We keep failing a particular level. I’ve played it before, and I explain the winning strategy, walking them through the way to win.
A space ship. I’m refreshing my zero gravity training. I pass through huge pressure doors, a bit nervous. There are three women delivering the training. They are like counsellors. They allow us to play and explore I stand in the ceiling, and practice trying to move if I don’t have a surface to push off. We dance, it’s fun, and flirty, and hilarious. The room fills with a hurricane of young, Irish, girl dancers in traditional dress. In the centre of the whirling dance, a girl called Emily, takes my hand and leads me safely through the swirling throng.
I’m cooking. A friend sees me, and shouts at me. He’s seeing someone else, not me. He thinks I’m Sophie Dahl. He speaks to me in German. He looks unwell. I tell him who I am. We go in search of a third opinion. Tom sees me as yet another crew member. Something is wrong. No one can see who I really am. The room fills with crew. Someone explains that if they take me down to engineering, it will all make sense. I’m paralysed and wheeled away. I pass people who are not the crew, but clones of the crew. I grab one by the balls. No response. He has no balls, this clone.
Ed passes me a box. It has a powerful led strobe in it. I turn it on, and adjust the speed. It works. The clones hate it, it protects me while I escape. I ask the computer to fill the ship with strobe light at the same frequency. Voice commands are not available from my location. I ride a go kart through a small town, flashing people as I pass. Some are not clones, the strobe does not affect them. I shout to them to leave. A group of Indian women are getting off a bus. They are real. I ask them for help. We locate a control panel, and I initiate a ship wide strobe, starting in 8 minutes and repeating every 15.
I meet a guy who is not a clone, but happy in their company. A crowd is gathering. I secure myself in a house. The windows are breached by clones dressed as French knights riding huge snapping turtles. I keep them at bay with my strobe. I throw a banana to them. They like it. Then garlic. They like this less. They plan to kill me. Strobe light floods around us. I am saved by the white light.
A Daliesque landscape. A sandy beach, edged with rocky outcrops. On the sand, an elongated table, like a giant piece of driftwood.
Sat at the table, Jeremy Paxman interviews a fat old Tory man in a pin stripe suit. He whines on about the economy and the deficit, a smaller state and less taxes. I lay into him. I want a bigger state, I want to pay more tax, I want the rich and corporations to pay more tax, I want an end to poverty, an end to sanctions, an end to persecuting the vulnerable in society. I’m so angry I can hardly breathe. He has no empathy or compassion for people. My voice cracks as I shout at him.
I warn him of a dark future for his kind. Of armed revolt and civil war, of death and destruction like this country has never seen. I won’t stand by while people die.