Riot Gear

Always read the manual.

I am in the Royal Festival Hall

and the soprano of vengeance is the one judged the world’s best and connected to me in some ways, but I am in terror and in a moment in Hades

  • from the clarity of the vision,
  • the urgency of the chorus, and
  • the remorse of the penitent tenor at her side.

Ransom Note Left at the Crime Scene

Howling dog, freezing bull, streetlit faces.

Is it time, Laika?

In this house, we were all together, in the world and developing, contesting against unfulfillment, but the species has changed and devolved in mind and body.

There is the normalisation of horror and the diminishing of the dimensions of reality, which is now considered hollow and shallow, its colours pale.

You have noticed that, right? Good.

Now, every narcissistic fantasy of victimhood can be indulged.

  • All white babies are racists.
  • 100,000 dead of malnutrition in Yemen.
  • Not from our bombs.

I am abused by your weeping.

With the ability to impose narratives of simple-minded cause and effect and the violent assertion of virtue, every single thing and body, that for some time could be commodified, is now a ritual, a game disintegrated to a colourless absence.

Interesting how it is understood and how they are doing it, ‘rioting.’ The new festival.

  • Hoodies looting more hoodies from designer stores.
  • Replacing trainers.
  • Picnics from burgers cooked in looted Macdonald’s.
  • Cooperative van use.

The state fasces, chattery narrators, seem actually to believe they are governing by the consent of the people even though they obviously aren’t. They believe there are values.

Eastern European Travel Highlights, 2022.

There obviously are.

The real politicians are terrified as they do walkabouts.

They know they govern by narrative.

The narrative went.

The pre-emotive illegal arrests of last month by police political units against ‘gang leaders’ are suspended, but inquiries into political corruption and police bribery are also suspended. The real cutbacks in social spending have yet to begin. The fictional cutbacks either caused or did not the riots.

I know. I was there.

A stereotype is being tested during its creation.

It was class war! And the underclass (made up of all aspirants, rich or poor) must be defeated!

When I was a young Marxist, I invaded the USA like this once, but that was before Twitter. I had the wrong technology.

In the experiment, lumpen areas were left to burn, a là U.S. tactics. Rich areas looted had compensation pumped in. It was beautiful how the kangarooo 24-hour fast-track trials turned up

  • theatrical characters,
  • 9-year-old gangsters,
  • lawyers,
  • Olympic stars.

The underclass now have the fantasy that there isn’t any conscious state and that they can do at will by messaging one another where to gather, travelling by tube or car (or on hijacked buses) to loot something.

It is the ultimate consumer society! The underclass looting like the ruling class does!

No regard for money. Just goods.

We are all Saudis.

Dress like them.

Blending in is self-defence by race.

But there were also wonderful absurdities, such as looting baby clothes stores and hanging the garments on trees in affluent suburbs.

The troubling UK version is here.

Police defended middle class suburbs and tourist areas. Individuals miles from everything, including in villages, just burned some stuff to see what it was like.

In that suburb the police closed the tube station so that the creative LOOTING adventure tour mob of 300 was left on the street in a strange upper middle class land hours from their dens and so trashed the whole posh town centre and all the streets home. Looting followed tube lines.

No, not the Taganskaya Station in Moscow, but only because it’s not hooked up to Transport for London’s Tube expansion plans yet. Look for updates soon.

Police defended middle class suburbs and tourist areas. Individuals miles from everything, including in villages, just burned some stuff to see what it was like.

They travelled differently, but they used the same styles throughout the country: knocking down brick walls to get missiles and burning council bins as barricades.

What it was like.

They dressed the same, some changing in mid loot. New cars were set alight to become gathering spots. The mob moved from there for undisturbed fun as police set up pretty lines to guard the cars on an empty street.

U.S. Federal Agents Practicing for Taking On Bonnie and Clyde.

Looters developed a common language, a pidgin. Much of it U.S. antique gangster speak.

So did the police!

Staff at fast food restaurants and electronic stores waited for end of shift and looted their own stores. People burned furniture stores they owed money to or which had turned them down for jobs.

Upper class criticism was that only unfashionable stores were looted. Bad brands. A lack of standards.

Alexandria and Kiew.

On a humid night, we had to close windows to smell of burning cars as the centres all around our hill burned. We had come home by cab after a Royal Albert Hall Choral work. Romantic German.

Lovely red smoky sky.

This is also what it was like.

I was a poet and warrior of light. I was mean and crappy. We all were. We are not now becoming. We cannot just leave those selves and walk on yet. Nor can we stop. Not yet.

This is the great migration.

The Retreat: 1945

The Nile valley has islands less lonely at Cairo.

On one, surrounded by white-trunked and tousled tall palms just like the poem pillars at Karnak, is the best poolside drinking spot in the city. The water in the pool is teal and clear lit from below. There is an ancient palace stone wall to frame the constant stars and to keep out the infrequent sand blown down from the plateau, that howls into the great combined bellow of the taxi horns.

Early Canada Council for the Arts Jury Meeting During the Suez Crisis

There, the Canadian and American Embassy staff often drink and flirt, sometimes fornicate, in circumstances and contexts purely mysterious to the populace without.

A short block away, at river’s edge, in front of the city of the dead on the far bank, is the great mosque.

Screams floating over the Nile at quiet midnight can just be heard at the poolside bar.

Within that view, nestles the historic and traditional traditional building for secret police torture of

  • political opposition,
  • of peasant fundamentalists,
  • child innocents and, on commission,
  • of the foreign enemies of Christian Democracy
  • and the rule of law,

done as a favour to the great western funding powers.

My apartment was next to that building. It had a high balcony from which, in the sharp winter cold that stilled everything as it tumbled from clear night skies, I blew large bubbles made using a coat hanger and washing up liquid. They would start out iridescent and rainbowed, drift over the black, slow waterflow, age to grey sacks, and then drop silently onto the torture building’s roof to symphonies of polyphonic torment.

Ah, the moment.

They are drinking there still.

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