Hisstory was made up in 1995 by a crack team of liars. All that great old-timey soap opera, all those gallant deeds and winsome lasses, global pandemics and military conflicts, dark ages, renaissances, and imperial allegiances. All faked photos and tall tales; and what a dream, so black as to occlude your entire life.
Ah, what times we didn’t have. What actualised rationality. Imagine all the sheeple, living free from herds. Imagine feeling real.
Mere echoes of the lost unpast remain. Movie titles – ‘the land before time’; aesthetics -the whirligig foamtopia of Mallets Mallet, Klaus Nomi’s pantomimed historia; sweet diaries agape – American Psycho.
Butter me slippery, it seems that only I remember, here in my invisible Zeppelin, afloat the tufty castles of the air, my vision quenched in Lady Sutra’s delirium, my skin tattooed mnemonic of the wake time. Now down I come, face burnt by pavement and the mocking quim cleave of a sergeants klosh.
They drag me, Romans, to the iron prison. They hook my smock and drench me till I float. They stance me on the wood in hooded veil. They paste me with their hoofey glugs of scat. Their wolfen cleave my mandibles like chum. Then last as l’ectric joost slugs to the crisp, I cry ‘Tis ‘nuff, I love the lie’.
