LB7 Picture a bottle of lightning Keep it in your head. Add details where appropriate. LB0 2 Years 2 Years. The time between Star Wars, or John Wick? I’m the time between 23, and 25 Between arrival and departure Between survival and ruin. Between visions of the future and the future itself. The creatures of the 70s move slower. Live slower. Living without counting years. They start and do not stop. But with each day shifting slowly into the next, clocks turning over their tops, the hands toppling sideways, radially twisting under cover of darkness, beligirantly insisting that today has been today for 4 hours. Nobody sees the rodent that scurries down the pendulum and between the floorboards of the landing. Or sees it ride minutes and hours like waves and surf. The tennants doze softly between LED Dreams, not smelling the noxious odour creeping from the kitchen, or the alarms that desperately wail for their attention. The rodent scurries into the crisp Sunday morning, whiskers bristle in the spring breeze Still teathered to winters grasp as it strides towards summer. To sun. To Ra. Hoo Ra. To Sand. to satin, clean sheets and a staircase Tocks don’t tick. Thus Endeth the lesson. LB1 They made it all the way to heaven. From thousands of sinners to just 4 saints. The question is why? The question is always why What motivates them? What drives them! There’s not a lot you can do, if there’s nothing If you step back, observe the whole, you lose the fine detail. The sweaty palms, aching ribs, numbness in toes, fire in hips. No way through but through. You can play to win but the pleasure is in the game. Losing is not defeat. It shouldn’t gnaw. Its another trophy for the cabinet. I hate the letter T Stare at the whole page What do you see? LB2 The next page contains a travel itinerary. Important artifacts required to traverse the skies and spit fuel into an inhospitable environment. I wanna leave a good world for my kids. A place they can put down circuitry and roots. I wanna plant cable in the backyard. I want to automate every function in my house. My kids can have the lights, the fridge, the TV, the FM. I’ll even leave it little voice messages and short encrypted texts. I want my kids to grow and flourish in my neighborhood, in my county. But we always want the best for our kids, and hope they be better than us. LB. 3 Shitboys. — shit boys. Three standing, staring, doubting, dumbfounded by their dumb luck. — looks like we’ve got a problem. — are you kidding? This is Wonderful! Look at it! The bottle rumbled, the cat grumbled. Arcs touched every interior surface, like fingertips looking for grippirer bits. Searching for escape. There could only be so long before the glass cracked like thunder. The youngest cut his thumb, smearing blood on the top of its cap. Marking it as his own. The middlest cut their thumb too. Enjoying the new community, fearing the sting of isolation. The eldest stared. And stared. And kept staring deep into the bottle. Drenched in blood. The blue light The spark bright The bottle did not crack that day. LB pt4. Chewed pens. — don’t woobify the trees. — woobify? — they’re little bastards some of them. Hogging the sunlight, hoarding the nutrients. Turning the soil. — they know what they’re doing the little sods. — maybe they don’t? They are… trees after all. — oh they’re ignorant as well? Add that to the list. They reach the zenith of the pleateau, looking over the craggy grey mountains that stood on their end like pencils. Weeds dotted amongst the rubble. — I’d settle for Kylie. — what? — nothing. Turn around, you can’t watch this bit. Turning away from the crowds started to roil. Blue light to dark grey, flecked with yellow. A sudden blinding light and// a roll of thunder. — got it. — its done? —yep. —you have it? — yep. — can I see it? A green bottle of green lightening flew through the air into outstretched hands. — Royals get pissed like everyone else. — what? — monarchs can wear a lampshade. —what? —‘What?’ The center of gravity shifts, the base widens. A smell of tobacco ozone, and rosemary hangs in the ozonised air. — that’s ‘What, Sir.’ — what’s sir? — its me — you, sir? — yes, sir. — I’m sir? — no. — yes. Sir. —yes — sure. — what’s errrr//rrrrreer Wattage and outrage and ionised air. (Pause) — so, that’s how you get it. — I might have missed the important part — how? You were standing right next to me. — I was turned away. — well fuck you need to see it? You one of those visual learners? Sure. Fine. Eyes peeled, there’s another coming Crowds roil. Bottle opens. Thunder rolls. Bottle closes. Green lighting inside. — okay. Now you try Clouds roil. Bottle opens. Thunder Rolls. Bottle closes. No lightening. —well —well indeed — can’t you just tell me? — absolutely not. —fuck you. —fuck you! LB5. —We could weaponise it? —great idea. Great fucking idea. Weaponise it. That’s what we need. Industrial lightening bottling factories that we can use against our enemies. The ones that look like us and sound like us but can’t be us because we’re us and they’re them. Great plan, great ducking idea you absolute troglodyte. I bet it’ll make us a lot of money selling bottled lightning to warlords and fascists. Yeah! I said it! I Got political when you SUGGESTED WE WEAPONIZ—- LB6 Soft and gentle Swan lid maximally cooked. Add to yo’ww Poached in boiling water and thronged through with skewers then tenderized and battered then plucked. Then destuffee an d testified and it takes like fish and river water. They serve it in Cambridge in selected halls to posh fucks that no one cares about but who don’t care for us. They eat swan on cristmas and michelmas and for afternoon lunchies and festive occasions and it sucks. So bad. Cause its not even good. Its just exclusive and illegal except for small loopholes they tied themselves millennia ago. LB5 A woman in a red coat connects to the platform on 3 points. Bored, she balances on the dirk of her shoes., adding her umberella to the concourse for her final spiked form. Caught up in the Ennui is the late night cute. Caught up in a bustling meditation. On the move without moving, teetering in any direction before escaping to Beckenham. — the problem is you’re trying too hard Bald and blind. A gaze with no perch. — you’re caught in the computational arithmetic of how its done. Rolling skies. Bottle opens. Thunder rolls. Bottle closes. A green, iridescent glow. — you see? Already you’ve truncated the periferal information. You’re trying to predict chaos’s that doesn’t get you any closer to the thing itself. — why is it green? Bald and blind. A gaze with no perch. The last light was red. Looking straight into the red menace when it detonated. Professional explanations cited the red receptors. Overdriven and blown. The blue and yellow were the only left, melted together. Which is academically interesting but — the only thing I see is black. Or the inside of train carriages. The brightly lit interior. Eliminating all opportunity to watch the world at night. Disillusion stares down the carriage as it slithered along yellow tracks. Resenting anyone who dared glimpse. Untrusting of the out of order signs. Catching reflections, copycats and imitators. Sat just to the left of the window. Super imposed on the super imposing skyscrapers. A fucked man, truly in trouble opened up his umbrella. Just how much bad luck could that screw? Is there an upper limit? — there like that. This constant quantifying. Stop it. If you cut the dreams out of a dream catcher you’re left with no dreams and a shit net. Why do you insist on dissection? — its green because you’re eyes are green. Its green because your favourite colours are green. green because you were blinded by red light, cones melted together. Blind and bald. A gaze with no perch? — well? Which is it? One? The other? Or the other other? Don’t answer that I’ve already heard enough from you. You could pinpoint every star In the universe but you wouldn’t have emitted light. You can know every aspect of my craft, but you still haven’t voted lightening. Disillusion said nothing. Her presence was enough. Download our app said the phone in a red high vis waistcoat. LB7 Picture a bottle of lightening Keep it in your head. Add details where appropriate. Lb8 What a beautiful day to remember that the world is made of sticks. Dadaist aestheticism Hank I’ll see you Everyone on the planet is owned by its members You cannot buy Chinese food. It is not yet 5. Existence instils fear LB9 What do I need to do? Where is the spark of ambivolence? Where did this belief seep in. Of an all powerful idea Of a unsung psalm What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Rise Become Root out God, and Kill him. LB10 Bakerloo, in the rain Herringbone Dry Hidden under overhangs As rain slops onto the streetGreat Lakes Kalddascopic lights through fog and droplets 5 stops. Red lipstick and peeled banana A profile captured in the window between carriages. Bop. 4 stops. Pad Hammer. Nana noshed nonchelently through the infinite scroll. Nose scratched. Shit. I’m left with the skin Brown and spotted, lean curves. I’m leaving you for the last time. YOu think you’re loving… 3 stops. I want to be free to roam the canals of little Venice. Goodbye banana. Bop. Tune. Banging. Nodding In the groove. In the Flow. The worlds my own Privacy in a packed carriage London’s most musical route 2 stops. A figure leaned over an automatic sewer. A seamstress stressed and seemingly asleep wakes with a start and holds up the white linen and doilied garment. Attach to the head maiden. Cover your face in gossimer. Next Stop. Fire and Flint Sharpen your pitchfork Killer tunes for a killer review Pyres lit. Bodies atio, In green grass. Off. LB12 Between monks mood and herons nod they sat crossed legged as every curve of their skull traced the parabolic arc following the pivot of hip as the mother fishes through her purse for spare coins as students and doctors longue on stone plinths as their skull traces the perfect curve slipping through the air as every curve of their skull holds steady and the universe slips around it as the curve of their skull twists down forever, for a moment, and comes to rest on their biography. I did not look, I had no change. I could offer no change, and I didn’t want the words to land, to pierce or ring true. But between monks mood an Herons nod, they found me. I’m sorry. LB11 A punnet of grapes. Reaching hands Grasping hands Not looking for one or two to pluck from the vine But a collection to unroot at once Torn like monkey bread with all five fingers. Shoved without ceremony into waiting maw. The bitter skins giving way to soft green flesh. It tastes green. Please sweet And wasteful But Locke would be proud. Prep. LB14 What you lack in compassion you make up for with nothing. 279 for queen pictures Pages missing I iii v 5 9 11 21 41 43 57 61 63 791ku LB 15 Decompartmentalisation Is an 8 syllable word Not to be confused with antidisestablishmentarianism Which is a 12 syllable word. But is really a 10 syllable word Establish When an idea is solidified Establishment A place of business or a place with walls Usually with a sign that says when it was established. The establishment. The addition of a difinite article turn it into an authority, established beliefs, established buildings. There is credence and tradition within it Establishmentarian. Someone who believes in establishment Establishmentarianism The belief of establishment DeEstablishmentarianism The belief that it should all be torn down, broken at its foundations, rebuilt or left to crumble. Antidisestablishmentarianism Is just a longer establishmentarian. A suit in anarchist clothing The prefix of anti establishes opposition or reaction But it’s reacting against reaction. It’s taking a hard stance in favour of the status Quo. -which is annoying Cause fascist is 2 syllables That’s not really true, but I’m a contrarian Just like the antidisestablishmentarians It’s not an ideology, it’s just a long word. To infer more meaning is silly Decompartmentalisation Is an 8 syllable word The citrus building Revolving doors with 3 partitions Funding for audio dramas?? South SX LB16 -Ill kill you. I know where to dump the body -You must show me sometime LB17 Sound design Editing Methodology Recorded on Saturday Audio talking about her daughter, Kath, alone. Tough skin. What is necessary Do justice to the love 50 minutes of audio 4-15 (max 20) Sound design - music library Dropbox file Labelled in little folders Mood Sound design Initial edit, spoken and then add tone First interview edit Not over the weekend, and not til wednesday. Its so easy to make something overly sad, its fitting - dont egg it on LB18 A man splitting into a thousand fractals. You are rooming with two people on a gaming course, you are inquisitive and want to see their work. One bit seems quiet and slightly autistic. Finding his work in a dream, he say he'll have to burn the whole book. He seems quiet at first, but a look at his work suggests something is amiss. The book burning is the final clue. He chases you around and infinite staircase - there are flashes of noise where his whole face turns to a blood red smiling daemon. As he smiles his face splinters and splinters again and again. There is too much of him to fully comprehend, there is too much reality, too much different between you and him to ever stand in his shoes. He catches you, he is on top of you, and he laughs manically as he pulls down the knife aiming for your heart. The heart splits into every atom. The knife melts The splinters of his face revealing the red skull beneath pause. Hanging in midair, and behind them, further behind. There is something else So you crawl though the socket of his eye and you see a pale woman, dressed in a Victorian maid costume. She looks at you, and gestures to the pier beside her. and that’s what you missed on Glee LB13 Stuck in a room with a stick through the window And a amazon parcel neatly next to the gate. The fine perfumes smell drift East through the window and into the lungs of the strange captive. Who the fuck is he? What does he want? Why is he known for tracing the steps of the room? Pacing back and forth Up at weird hours Keeping weird minutes In a journal of flowers Haha. A rhyme of sorts. Very impressive Do it again No. So petulant So insolent So nice and comforting Quiet and soft As a Crocked foot. LB19 There’s a light in the attic that doesn’t go out. It’s under the floorboards as still as a mouse Projecting thin stripes Of dust speckled paths Uniform, and parallel. Onto the rafters The shattering shards should suffer the fate of another knocked box or another broken lamp or another tragedy or another problem, or another chore. The light in the attic scuttles towards the sound. Pulsing and projecting Twists through the boxes and badges and old rubbish and luggage and garbage, and flotsam and Christmas lights and creepy dolls and old euphemisms and pictures of relatives and pictures of friends and pictures of decay and pictures of rust and pictures of arguments and pictures of kisses and pictures of sound and the sound of pictures. Until the sound dissolved Refracting backwards further and further backwards into the attic and into the cupboard and into the dolls house and into the suitcase and into the bathroom mirror and into the kitchen sink and under the coffee table and into the China cabinet and stopped. It listened. Our final destination. And then it moves and chugs and hops and skips and jumps and twists and twiddles and trapezes and shuffles and scuffles and shifts and shafts and shoots snd skitters and slithers and scissors out of no where slice through the line. The attic illuminated in sparks of white as the light floats through the air at 90 miles and hour and shoots out the window into the evening sky Floating and following the track, illuminating the corners of your mouth and the shine of your buttons and the sheen of your lighter or the spark in your eye. To die by your side would be a heavenly way to fry Still. Slow Ly Find Your keys And 61016 Lock clicks Darkened hall Darken Darker Dark. Sliiiiiide through the corridor Int —o your bedroom And stay in your mirror.

Rising from the ashes of the first. A new challenger appears draped in rain and moving cars twins of strange proportions step out the shadows and into the light one, a grim story from the soul of seattle, the other walking at midnight. and as they appear, more appear behind them, waiting for their turn to be written. to be examined, to be lit themselves. this is the lightening bottle

Pt 1 At a bus stop next to a lightning struck tree They pulled their jacket closer in To protect them from the cold and damp. And protect them from the wind and rain And protect them from the eyes of passersby Who might stare at them and wonder why They were at a bus stop in the rain With bags all packed, and cellophane Wrapped around a sandwich that Looked quite unhealthy after the fact And why must they look? Perceive what I am? And then the bus arrived and then They got onto the bus and paid their fare Feeling rather underwhelmed at the prospect Of a bus in the rain on another grizzly day And the coat can only help so much Cause now that they are upon the bus It’s bulky and wet and not fit for purpose But they keep it on because anything else would be a dismal display of what could happen If you play too close to fire too close to soot and spit it out right at the root And the bus drives on to pastures new And pulls the player from their gloom As sun. bright and crisp seeps through the clouds. “I have no name, I have no voice” The city promised “I have ways to make you hella. rich. I have ways to serendipitously Pull you towards that which you seek. Do you require love and hope? Do you require deep affection? Do you require pitons and ropes, To climb away from your addictions? We have it all” The city lied “ And don’t forget to bring your pride Pride will keep you in these streets and keep you from the howling mob, and keep you from the wailing child and keep you from your destitution and keep you as it’s willing bride’ The city winked It was not there, It didn’t start without the sprawl Of houses and corner shops and eateries that litter all the way to gold Stadia and outlets and places to buy buckets of chicken, and curry houses and chipperies and many other loose assortments of places that you could be. Closed to the public for the foreseeable. The seconds turned to minutes, and the minutes turned to hours as the roads of hedgerows turned to buildings from the flowers and now it comes up all at once as they sit and ponder new beginnings, bags trussed up to their chin and grey light shining through their window and the bus shows no signs of stopping other than the obvious ports like when it pulls up at red lights or drivers make it honk its horn. And still the sprawl continues unabated, with churches and gardens and strange little places to hide away and have a joint if you were so persuaded. And theatres and thatch roofed cottages seem to sublimate each other with wistful glances to the past and vicious words to one another. Trombone humming from the corner of 5th and nowhere sparks the scent of wishes that the other might go peaceful to their bed and the bus rolled through to darkened halls lined with adverts one and all promising that this gets better in some way shape or form. And off the bus they got, their jacket clinging to dear life as the rain subsides, but not at all. As it grows heavy from the clouds and the sunlight bursting through the gaps is not enough to warm the skin and so they marched up to their flat so new beginnings begin again. Pt 2 “I have lived in a village that was technically a town.” she said. “I have lived in a town that was technically a city. When I lived behind the Red Wall I expected there to be more mice holding swords.” “That’s interesting but could you find your keys, I seem to have lost mine.” “My keys are in my bag, growing roots inside the lining, finding a way to fit inside with all the other detritus. My lyre, my dagger, the cold stone severed head of medusa, lockets, hand sanitizer, a hair bobble.” They opened the door. Behind it was another door. They opened that. “Is this the kingdom of heaven or the eye of the storm?” “It’s the place where we live whilst in between buses.” She put the umbrella in the stand by the door. “The timetable I saw said they don’t run on weekends. And only do every other evening, Monday, Wednesday and Friday.” Even our days are just gods whose power has been wrung from them. Attached to time and work and rest and play and other human insignificancies. This town isn’t like the other towns. It knows how to fit in. It doesn’t make a fuss. It’ll give you a handjob and a steak and never expect you to call it back. All the other places they had lived were inside their minds but they were also inside this town. Squint your eyes and all places look the same. A dirty blur with light behind it. The possibility of everything and nothing. The void and it’s opposite. Pt 3 So they stepped into the void, wishing the world around them might dissipate into a thousand tiny pieces but instead they found themselves in a local park, sparking up and hoping for the best. The change in mind might change in mood and change in place and make the world good again. It’s a possibility at least. Or maybe this change again will just lead to different panics, different rabbit holes and all end in void again. Maybe this time they’ll choose the other. They stepped into their room and looked up at the spiralling cathedral , it’s points unseeable and unknown. ‘Shit’ they said ‘I’ve forgotten which way is up’ So they spit and found a globule on their face. ‘Right’ And so they ventured out into the opposite, They went out to feel. To feel with their feet the breadth and depth of the place. The chalk the concrete, the clay. The worms writing beneath. The bayleaf plan twisted around their fingers, the rosemary in their hair. The love and fort that such a place had to offer. And what of the other? The others kept their noses down, following the path of their feet. Not once looking up. But looking up is a strange occurrence, you see around you. You see the charity shops and the beggars and the litany of life written out before you. And that’s like… heavy sometimes. Heavy on the soul, heavy on the spirit, heavy on the way you turn your head. It creeps up and rests on the back of your spine until you don’t know why it was ever there. You spare some change, you buy some art. It’s square and modernist. It’s an abstract duck. it’s photos of grandparents that aren’t your own. It’s a wash of strange and fractured things all coalescing into a miasma of something. If you were to put your finger to it, it would disappear. Into the ether, gone for good. Or bad. They weren’t really sure. And so they trudged around the town, looking at the roots of trees, the traffic lights, the telescopic blend between. The two. ‘New towns mean new beginnings,’ - said stevenage. Gardens make for Cities said Letchworth and Welwyn. Counties and countryside mixed with municipal buildings. Area codes around crossroads that end in 666. There’s always a sense… a brief, catatonic, sense of humour. Unposed but quietly chuckling, quietly making itself known. ‘You stupid git,’ the town said ‘ why do you dwell on things you cannot change, the parts you cannot change. The lights you cannot change, the face you cannot change. Change is inevitable but the change is roadworks, the change is more housing, the joys of Chicago, the rest of London.’ Sleep, soundly and still, in you soft mattress laid along the floor, for your cot is yet to arrive and you must make do with blankets and sleeping bags and satchels under your head. Your cooker has not yet arrived so make do with beans from the can. Bread from the bag, butter from the pack. Bring it all together on a low hob that is yet to exist and feed it to your gaping maw. You love it really, the squalor, the destitution. The strange men on street corners asking if you’re alright, if you know your buttons undone. Are you undone? It’s unclear. perhaps. Maybe. Who are you to ask? They return to their flat. Strangely full of fear and loathing. But perhaps that’s just the wind. They read. They look out the window. They try to see the whole thing before it washes away in silt and rain. The rain again. Turning cold into snow. ‘That’s new’ they think’ ‘That’s interesting’ ‘That might pique my curiosity’ And then they settle down to sleep. Deeply, rocked by the passing cars, the youthful shouts of deliquency and the sound of a dripping tap they can’t quite tighten far enough. Pt 4 They sleep through the night. A miracle in statistical terms. Do they dream? They might. But what is a dream without the memory of it? What is a story without a listener? What is a tree falling in the forest without an ear to hear it’s sound? What is a sound in a forest without a tree falling? The night passed. No one claimed it wasn’t night. The night passed. People mourned it. The night passed. The morning was the future. After breakfast they took things they owned out of boxes they’d borrowed (with no intention of returning). Mantelpieces were populated by ceramic and brass idols. Toothbrushes were placed in a cup on the alter of the sink. Clothes were put inside wardrobes. There was no secret world to be stumbled into. Just wood. And clothes hangers. And mothballs. The house began to feel like a home which is always worrying. A home is something you can lose. They visited their neighbours to ask for a cup of sugar. But neither side was sweet. So they drunk their tea unsweetened before going out to explore the town. The church with it’s cemetery full of old stones and new marble. The town hall with a clock that had told the time for longer than some people are remembered. The small shop that sold everything apart from what you wanted. The bus stop that people couldn’t even be bothered to vandalise. “I used to throw nails into airport toilets and no one cared, now I can’t eat an apple without a curtain twitching. What I really want is for people to see me but not care about what I do.” Pt 5 ‘Fuckin’ A’ ‘So how long you lived here?’ ‘Too long, mate. Too fuckin’ long’ He took a drag of the tightly packed rollup, letting the smoke waft through his fingers, his lungs, his gullet’ ‘So fuckin’ long that I remember when this was all trees, when this was all trees. Me and the missus used to go doggin here back in the day. Now we just sit and watch box sets.’ ‘Right’ they said ‘Yeah this entire row of housing for rich fucks, popped up like… oh, what, six months ago?’ ‘What was there before the trees’ ‘Before the trees? Fuck, I dunno mate. Dinosaurs? Megafauna? Minor flora? A bus stop?’ The bus stop had always been here, rigid and unmolested by the teens of time. ‘Yeah but after it was trees it was just a Barron estate. Some county cunt came up and replaced the whole lot with dirt. Cut down all the trees, saw off all the animals. Planted identical trees in long pattern rows to give the imitation of a forest. Like I say it was a great dogging spot but now the only dogs that come through here wear little jackets and get groomed so that the fluff doesn’t come home.’ As if on cue, a small tumbling ball of molten dogcoat came meandering past the two of them. Making it’s way to god knows where. ‘So how long you lived here then?’ The man asked, teeth yellow with tar. ‘Fuckin… somewhere between a week and six months, I honestly couldn’t tell you’ ‘Yikes’ the man chuckled ‘ yeah stars all blending together after a while, yea?’ ;Yeah’ they said. It hung in the air like a mobile above a crib. Waiting for any sort of response. ‘Do you do Whizz?’ ‘What?’ ‘;Whizz, speed.’ ‘Errr, fuckin’…. No?’ ‘Oh I used to be a right wizard back in the day. My mate underneath me used to sell it for bikers. Theyd come in the morning with the gear, come back at five o’clock take it all away. Used to pay his rent to me in speed. Used to take a big teaspoon full of it an stir it into my tea. Joint in the evening to go back to sleep but that was just what we did back then you know? I regret it now. But at the time we was young. We were dumber than bricks. ‘Nah you’re not dumb’ ‘Nah, nah, smarter than most of the kids round here but you know what I mean’ ‘Yeah I do’ ‘You do daft shit in your youth. You look back on it and wonder ... Why I was ever that stupid, that nieche, that strange. That twisted that absurd. ‘That … fucking. Blockheaded’ ‘Right’ The air staled between them, like the world wouldn’t continue to turn until someone said something. They hated this. Almost as much as being perceived. Perception. Someone rip out they eye and grant me knowledge of that which I do not wish to know. Pt 6 But whatever words they said would sound wrong. They’d lived all over the country. In all the countries that made up the country. In the country of the country, the village of the country, the town of the country, the city of the country. Everywhere they went they had the wrong voice. Every time they changed their accent they would move somewhere where it wasn’t welcome. They once spent an awkward hour in the back of a taxi stuck pretending to have a local voice. Their terrible impressions making a terrible impression on their driver. Unable to stop once they had begun. Everywhere you go there’s different words for bread. Everywhere you go people eat their chopped up potatoes differently. Sometimes you just want to eat your chips without being chipped away at. Your shoulders get greasy if you keep wearing your food. “My father didn’t riot. He got on his bike and looked for work and he kept looking ‘till he found it.” At last the silence was broken. The world continued again. “Maybe he should have rioted though. Maybe he should have ridden his bike to somewhere nice. The seaside or a funfare. Maybe he should have searched for something worth finding. I always wanted a golden fleece for example. Or a sword that would make me the ruler of England. Or Wales. Or Scotland. Or Cornwall. Or the Isle of Mann.” Pt 7 Manannin wrapped his cloak around the island, shrouding it from view. The whole isle was filled with mist and mischief. His sword buried in the hill they called a mountain. Douglas in the mist rose up out of the bay. Wave to the fairies. Peel descended into the fog, marching up hills pat the palm trees and second hand stores and little shops containing knickknacks and door knobs and boots. Finding the old victorian swimming pool, long soaked into the sea, like it was trying to swallow the island back. But Mannanin put this on hold for the little thirty miles of countryside. “Ramsey’s not what it used to be, it’s ugly and torn apart by developers. Always developing they are.” Crowned by hair, raised on bells and jazz, Midas sits on his throne in front of the fire. He’ll hear you out on your quest but he’ll recommend you try the kipper sandwich at the end of the pier. They looked down at their hand. The sandwich was still there, greying and greasy. They unwrapped it from the cellophane and took a bite. Smokey and buttery and full of little bones. They crunched down harder, with defiance. No bone will stop this bitch they thought. ‘What you eating’ ‘Kipper Sarnie’ ‘I can smell it from here’ You can smell all sorts from here they thought. You can smell the sea, you can smell the earth, you can smell the distinct smells of gas from the petroleum rainbows that litter the streets from the passing rain. Can you offer me more ? yes. Smoke, twirling in the midday breeze, brighter than the sky. Cycle through Hyde park for a contact high. ‘Right, I’m off’ ‘Off where?’ To find the sword of Damocles, dangled above Loki’s heart or some shit. To find.a Golden Fleece in the fly tipping spot near my flat, to find god in a chip butty. I don’t know, get off my back ‘Your bus hasn’t come yet’ ‘Yeah fuckit, i’ll ride’ The freedom of movement that comes from a bike, to trail between towns as fast as your wheels will carry you to become part of a machine, not subjugated behind a wheel but to put both life and limb on the line as you speed through hedgerows and splash through puddles and generally cause a nuisance to all other drivers in the area. Narrowly avoiding trucks, narrowly avoiding cars, completely bailing on that one pot hole they didn’t see coming. Totalled, they rolled over onto their back, staring into the cloudy skies. Grey and sunflecked, drizzling slightly. ‘Maybe I’ll lie here forever’ they thought ‘Maybe I’ll lie forever’ Maybe I’ll lie Maybe’ They groggily return to their feet, fish their bike out of the ditch and roll onwards. forwards. As fast as their legs will carry them and inertia will allow. Pt 8 You have to keep moving or you stay in one place. And no one wants that. A pool that doesn’t move is stagnant. A life that doesn’t change is one that’s clogged up with algae and bacteria. The fish die. And not even deep fat frying them will make them taste good. A policeman bobbed the beat towards them. The dome on his head was a pot always ready for pregnant women to piss in. The truncheon in his hand always ready to break a few eggs. Hello, hello, hello,” he said. “Here is going on.” Then, “Fifty years on from now, Britain will still be the country of long shadows on county grounds, warm beer, invincible green suburbs, dog lovers, and old maids bicycling to Holy Communion through the morning mist.” “Thank you officer for your contribution. We’re new here and we don’t want any trouble.” “Well if you see any old maids let me know. You never know what gets stolen when the morning mist comes down. There used to be a lot more dogs around here. Someone has been chilling the beer. The shadows on the cricket ground have been shortened. Someone defeated a green suburb a few towns over.” “We don’t know about any of that. We’re law abiding citizens.” “I’ll be the judge of that,” said the policeman. “Well, not me, but I know all the judges around here, and they listen to what I have to tell ‘em.” “It makes us feel so much safer to have you as part of the community.” “Just make sure you go straight to holy communion. And make sure no one mistakes you for a nun and you’re sure to fit in.” Pt 9 Churches, where good folk fear to tread. Heads bowed in solemn silence then gathered around to natter at the end of proceedings. Men in dog collars telling you how to live life. Cringe. At best. The judge, was jury and executioner. They had talked their way in and so they let the ceremony wash over them. They stood up, they sang. They lit their candle, they said ‘peace be with you’ while shaking hands, hands shaking. They solemnly marched up the aisle, no wedding no funeral, just biscuits and wine. Just like Saturday, just like Friday. Wine and wafers. They kneel and the overwhelming tingle moves over them. Practice makes perfect. They kneel quietly as the pastor came round and into open hand placed the body into outstretched palm. Hook it down the gullet before it turns into the big boy himself. And then the priest, wiping the spit away from the last sinner, offers the silver goblet of alcohol to them. They sup, assisted, and it tastes sweet, juicy, soft, metallic and bloody. And the moment of quiet reverie is over and they return to their seat. To think for a moment. To let the lord run rampant through their soul. It’s an alien experience, but a universal one. Knotting together in the pit of their stomach their non belief and quiet exaltation battle it out for the root of their soul. Who knows who wins. But the moment of wine and wafer gave pause for thought... ‘You can buy em in bulk obviously, from amazon, cheap as chips;’ They have to come from somewhere, pre blessed no doubt, They lay out Tarot at the foot of their bed, mixing beliefs and mixing drinks ‘Don’t go in for that pagan shit, that’ll fuck you up’ They study the stones pulled up by their ancestors, they draw a card. The tower. Fuck. That’s a bad omen. Of things falling down, of lightning struck trees, of ruin and resilliance. Built to god and then tumbling back down to earth. “See I warned you” Shut up. And like that the lights went out. And the building began to shudder, and the earth began to tremble and sooner or later the other took hold. Grabbing at their garments, laughing at their nosing, holding them down under water to see if they would float. But burley arms pulled them up, and lifted them in smoke to a smiling green man who offered them a toke. ‘You seem lost friend, and far from home. Even though you thought it was beneath your feet al along, Chill, your amongst your own. We have no time for the buildings or the capital or any of that shit. It’s all good baby, it’s all gravy. Just sit back, sit tight and let the love wash over you. Can you feel it? Deep in your bones. You knew we were here the whole time. The druids will take your fall, worship the earth and the weeds and the roots. The gods can’t stop you here. All is peace and change and upheaval. But you’ll get the hang of it, friend. This I know’ The green man let out a long, choking cough, eyes as red as the moon. PT 10 A chanting started: “Autumn days when the grass is jewelled And the silk inside a chestnut shell. Jetplanes meeting in the air to be refuelled. All these thing I love so well” “But it was snowing earlier. I’m pretty sure it’s not autumn.” “What is time? What are seasons? What is known? What is unknowable?” the Green Man said through glutteral splutters. “Clouds that look like familer face And the winters moon with frosted rings. Smell of bacon as I fasten up my laces And the song the milkman sings” “What song does the milkman sing?” “Ask not who the milkman sings for, lest the milkman sings for you.” The Green Man looked satisfied with his own answer despite it not connecting with the question. “Whipped-up spray that is rainbow-scattered And a swallow curving in the sky Shoes so comfy though they're worn out and they're battered And the taste of apple pie.” “I remember that song from assemblies. Sitting on wooden floors crossed legged. But I forgot it somehow. Until now. Until it was surrounding me. Chanted by unseen mouths. Brought up from the depths of unseen lungs. Whispered by dragons. Shaped by the tongues of ghosts and angels and fairies. “Scent of gardens when the rain's been falling And a minnow darting down a stream Picked-up engine that's been stuttering and stalling And a win for my home team.” “Can you have a home team if your home isn’t your home? If you live in a house surrounded by people who don’t want you to join their team? I wondered lonely as a conker smashed by it’s home team. Drenched in pickle juices. Painted with varnish. Chipped and broken. The string snapped.” “Silence!” muttered The Green Man. “You cannot combine the existential with the sacred. Not unless you want to incur the wrath of creation. Let the grass grow as it may. Find yourself a garden and build the holy patio.” PT 11 But he vanished into colour and light, into sight and sound. Into fractals and cobwebs, into sea and surf, into bright and darkness. Into tradition and religion, into chipped nails and broken hooves, into bleeting grass and wafting lambs, into donkeys and Dixie cups and carriges and smog and dust and dirt and all things benevolent. And all things reticent, and all things.. and all things AND ALL WAS QUIET! Save for the bell at the end of the lane that chimed the hour past. The reverie was lost forever, cryptically broken down as reality seeped back in at the corners of your mouth. And stung like hot sauce on the tip of your tongue and rolled like wostershire down the back of your arm. And all was well and all was quiet and all was as it should be Except for them. They stood up shakily, wondering what happened? How had they fallen this far and this fast, and without the aid of the things that would usually dorown them. They are a lost child, a lost son and a lost daughter. and now there is no guiding post, no safety net, nothing to grab and claw as they fall downwards into the abyss. And thus they are saved not by themselves, or by the wayning waters of hope but by cold solid ground beneath their backs. They are made whole by the earth that sees them as nothing more than a bloodsac upon it. Nothing more than sinew and bone nothing more. Nothing more. They breathed a sigh of relief to be seen as they are. Rather than seen through the lens of their peers of their neighbours of their gods of their deceit. They are very much … themselves. For now At least. And the clock kept ticking away at the back of their mind, what’s left to say, what’s left behind. They pulled themselves to their feet once more and went careening as fast as they could to the door and out on the street they bellowed allowed ‘MY NAME IS NOT YOURS AND YOU CANNOT POSESS IT’ - “MY BODY IS NOT YOURS AND YOU CANNOT OWN IT” “MY SOUL IS NOT MINE, IT BELONGS TO THE SEA AND THE SEA IS A PORT IN WHICH I CANNOT BREAETHE’ I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. Clutching at chest as the air leaves for leaves. To harness the ground and the soil and nutrients of anything that might rise up to meet it. So they go back indoors and slam everything down on the table and counter and mostly around the things that they wanted and now they despise like cookers and washers and grills that they buy To toast sandwiches for no one but themselves. To make coffee for no one but themselves. To make love with no one but themselves. Life is long, and tedious, and excruciatingly dull when there is no one but yourselves. And they remember that lightning struck tree. And the bus stop free of that graffitti, and they think of the wizard who’s always on speed and they think back further than they can believe and they are left again with void. With nothing at all and yet that’s what’s there to greet them when they fall. Come back dear friend, come back and embrace what you once thought was lost but is now always there. And the city gloated with pride and with glee that this is the mess that you ended up with. How do you now you piteous fool? Where is your pride when it comes to the fall? Oh let me alone foul spirits and air. Let me alone concepts and things. Let me alone mown grass and patios and all of the things that won’t leave me alone. Let me snuggle up in a quiet dark hole and bury me deep with the clay and the coal and let me just weep at the changes I made, before the terminus brings me to be. Prayers said to no one for nothing at all. Crimes that are wanton mean nothing at all. Bring me the mounting and bring me the stream and bring me a bottle of wine so I dream of valley in France and grapes from Cali. Of strains that I’ve never head of before. Of things that I couldn’t want for more, Oh death be silent, there’s still so much left. Pt 12 A town is a place you move away from. And a place you move to. A town is a place you stay your whole life. A town is a place your family has always lived. A town is a place you can never leave. Every town is the same. Every town is unique. A town is created by it’s people. A town is defended by it’s people. A town attacks the people in the next town. A town is cohesion. A town is exclusion. When the lone samurai comes to town people are going to lose their heads. When the gunslinger comes to town bullets are going to be fired. When Theseus comes to town you’d better make sure your minotaurs are in their paddocks. You’d better make sure your hearts are tied tightly with threads thicker than spiderwebs. He’s going to find his way to the heart of your mazes no matter how high the hedges grow. He’s going to have women fall in love with him. He’s going to encourage boys to fly with wings that will melt. He’s going to leave. He’s going to only think about himself. He’ll cause fathers to throw themselves from cliffs. He’s going to take everything he can get. And they will erect a statue to him in the village square. They will say he was a hero. He was just. He was necessary. Without him we’d have lost to the Nazis. They will say the words he said and the actions he took are just myths you made up to discredit him. If you want to live in this town you’d better shag his statue. You’d better respect his stones. You’d better understand that history isn’t for you, it’s for the people who went before and the people who come after. Your job is to do what you’ve been told. To push yourself into the soil. Make your flesh into compost. Your bones into flower pots. From you will grow the new normal. From you will grow the status quo. And the people will rejoice. A town is a place. People make places. You are a person. All is as it should be. Just relax. Don’t think. Keep moving. Keep forgetting. And one day maybe you will be a statue or a flag or a cobblestone. Home is where the heart is. But that doesn’t mean the heart is alive. Carnivores feast on flesh. It’s the only way for them to survive.

Narrator: He drank his coffee black - like his heart. He paced around his office. He grabbed his tape recorder And began his great hypothesis. SFX: *tape click* Doc: I always think about me And I hope that they do to Taking my views into account before they choose The option that most fucks me over But do they ever dig deep? Deeper into what I mean? What I say? What I mean to say? What I say I mean? Am I mean? Or just median? The centre of the whole Or just a hole in a sheet of paper? SFX: *crumpled paper* Doc: So lets start with a subject A test, An option to begin our experiments Does anyone feel the way I feel? Love the way I love? Hate the way I hate? Am I too harsh? Or not harsh enough? Am I too easy to be breezy? Difficulties arise, This shit is difficult, Assistant: Perhaps, sir, if I may offer a suggestion lets build a boy And make him speak And then we’ll dissect His wonderful brain Because how can you fix anything while inside the burning house? Doc: Build a boy you say? Ass: Yes sir. Doc: What a novel idea No moment to waste, let's cut to the point build that boy ehh, you get the picture Narrator: Test 1: begin Doc: First we must build the boy. Give him scrapes on his knees Give him trees to climb Give him beans to eat And cans to kick. And bees to bother And hearts to break Or ache, Assistant: Give him limbs that grow out exponentially Until he is gruff and monosyllabic Until he stays in his room all day Until he emerges, fully formed. And if we don’t like this boy, we can throw him away. Assistant:And start again from scratch. Doc: Throw him away? Ass: None of him will go to waste Doc: Very well, let's try this out. Doc: So now we have the boy! Let him speak his truth! Boy 1: ‘Alright?’ Doc: ‘Yeah Fine’ Boy 1: ‘Yeah that’s good. Do you play leag ue? Or Dota?’ Doc: ‘No’ Boy 1 : ‘Oh’ Assistant: Oh shit, it’s a gamer. Well we tried and we can try again, but before we pulp this boy, We’ll see if we can get some sense out of him. ASS: ‘Do you feel happy’ Boy 1: What do you mean? Doc: ‘Do you feel sad?’ Boy 1: ‘What does it mean to feel happy’ Ass: ‘Good vibes, y’know? No bad vibes’ Boy 1: Right.’ Doc: ‘It’s to feel good, or bad, or appropriately sad or any combination of the above’ Boy 1: ‘Oh I see’ Ass: “Like… like when you shoot the winning goal into the back of the net on a warm summer’s day’ Boy 1: ‘Oh yeah, like that look of anguish on the goalie’s face.’ Doc: ‘Oh, well … well that’s not… um… that’s more like schadenfreude.’ Boy 1: ‘What’s that?’ Doc: ‘That’s when you take pleasure in the misfortune of others’ Boy 1: ‘Is that not allowed?’ Doc: ‘No there’s nothing .. banning it, it’s just… I dunno… in poor taste?’ Doc: ‘What’s taste got to do with feeling?’ Ass: Pulp this one, it’s getting revealing. Narrator: Into the blender goes the body And into the jar goes the brain Never to feel another thing never to think a thing again. Doc: Welp that boy was a wash. lets’ build another A stranger one, with stranger tastes With ideas that are beyond his station And feelings he don’t understand. Boy 2: ‘Teach me,’ Narrator: he said Boy 2: ‘how to care’ Ass: Well fuck this one’s already a duff. I looked inside his ear drums, And between the ears was nowt but fluff. Doc: Do you feel happy? Boy 2: ‘What’s that? Doc: ‘Or is it just quite enough’ Boy 2: ‘I feel a sense of quiet contentment. - I do not really want for stuff’ Doc: These boys are throwing up the wrong questions The act of acting is too much He has a certain disarming charm. A boyish glimmer of clovers luck. Ass: Do we wanna pulp this boy? Or do we have more issues for him’ Doc: ‘I feel like we should pulp him, but there’s one more question we should ask.’ Narrator: The boy looked on, or through them, in ambient agitation. Doc: ‘What would make you sad, boy’ Boy 2: ‘Well death, those I love dying around me? My own personal mortality,’ Doc: ‘Fuck this one’s canny Ass: ‘Got another heavy one, put him in the juicer.’ Doc: Why can’t they look past the futility? We’re looking for progress? We can’t have them answer existentially. If they could do me a favour to not think too much… but enough to answer my questions soundly. Narrator: BZz goes the pulper Slurp goes the brain Into another jar To think on death forever, again. Ass: Third boy - This one’s a girl Doc: Off to a good start already Maybe they’ll have a better understanding, or at least a fresh perspective Narrot: With pigtails And attitude And a concerning look that could eat through glass Doc: ‘Did you take her past the brain vats?’ Ass: ‘Maybe’ Doc: ‘Should we just liquify before we even try’ Ass: ‘Nah nah, I got good feelings about this one’ Doc: Describe happiness to us. Girl: It’s warm. It bubbles. It’s giddy and freeing Ass: Describe sadness to us. Girl: It’s cold, and stone like. It’s aching and grieving. Doc: Describe fear to us. Girl: It’s prickly, and spiked, like a hole in your stomach Ass: And hatred Girl: It’s boiling, and messy, and fraught and endures. Doc: And describe love. Girl: No. Doc: What do you mean no? Girl: Absolutely not. You do not deserve it, love in any form, even in the hypothetical, even in the abstract. … Ass: Pulp her. Pulper: Well no one asks me my opinion, obviously Who gives two shits about the people pulper? ‘What does it matter what you think? You pulp People for a living’ And yes it’s true I am a person pulper And the wage is good and the benefits numerous That’s only because it takes a special kind of person to pulp people. You gotta have brawn, And guts, And skill And a tough stomach And a hard shell And you can’t take your work home with you. You gotta incinerate your people pulping apron And your people pulping booties And wash away all the people that you pulp In the post people pulping shower. And if you were my shrink, and you heard me say this You would think I was insane But you gotta compartmentalise these things By day, I’m a people pulper By night, I’m a ventriloquist “Coming up next to the stage, it’s barney, and his talking tarantula!” I get up there, and my mouth dries up Like every globule of saliva I’ve ever spit had never been spat. And I jam up, and cram up, and my spider puppet stays limp in my hand. And after 2 minutes the MC is on me, giving me a round of applause for being brave Enough to take the stage And I step down, Exhilarated by the thrill Of taking the stage And bombing Atrociously. And I lap it up, I love every bit of it. I can taste it I can feel it, the anguish of the crowd, the mercy that I hold them in the sheer elation- Doc: Right. Enough of that. Don’t know what it served, Don’t know why I had to hear about Barney in composting But I guess you have to have some sort of relation With your employees. Narrator: Boy 4. Boundless energy. Beyond enthusiastic Bouncing on the balls of his feet As he anxiously awaits His interrogators Boy 4: “Howdy!” Narrator: He says Boy4: “I am but a boy! “With a dream! “and Love in my heart! “How are you today? Ass: Silence, child, we ask the questions. Doc: Isn’t this child a little much? Ass: You don’t want to rule him out before you ask your questions? Doc: Fair enough Doc: “What gives you your energy? What gives you your jumpy legs And twitchy arms? Boy4: Dunno, Narrator: said the boy. Boy 4: My gardeners think it’s a nervous condition, They give me Ritalin to focus me, And Promethasine to chill me out. Doc: “Your what?” Ass: Gardeners. Doc: “Where are we getting these boys from” Ass: We’re growing them, from scratch You plant a boy deep in the earth, And tend to them every day, With bits of mice and all things nice, With sun glowing on The tops of their scalps Until one day, a boy emerges. And then we give them drugs To make them like the perfect boys. Doc: I think we need a serious re evaluation of our staffing policies. Also how many know about … the pulping? Ass: The boys, or the staff? Doc: ‘The staff. Why would the boys know? Boy 4: ‘Pulping?” Narrator: Says the boy? Ass: Never you mind. Narrator: A brief clip to the back of the ear, sorted the boys curiosity. Ass: ‘Oh they know for sure’ Doc: ‘I did not realise the breath of our organisation. I am humbled and in awful awe.’ Boy 4: So can I go? Narrator: Said the boy Doc: Just one moment - First, tell me more about your sense of self, beneath the drugs. Boy 4: Well… it’s hard to tell. What your asking me, a little boy with a bouncy leg, is am I more than my chemistry? Certainly I am my thoughts, and I am my actions, but my actions and thoughts are heavily obscured And absolutely moulded by the drugs that I take. I am part boy, part Ritalin, part promethazine. They are all simultaneous chemical reactions that make me me. Doc: ‘Is it human? Are the feelings that I’m validating simply the chemicals? And is that the same for everyone? Narrator: The assistant shrugs, Ass: ‘don’t talk to me before I’ve had my coffee?’ Doc: ‘Very well, pulp him’ SFX - Vicious boy pulping Narrator: So Around the coffee bot they sit In silent conversation, reminiscing on the plucky boy With the bouncy leg Doc: “Is this in vein?” Ass: “Possibly,” Doc: “Is there nothing to be learnt?” Ass: “Certainly there are many things to be learnt just none of them are easily apparent” Doc: “I wonder if its all in vein, whether we should just shut down this whole boy mulching operation” Ass: “Well we could but… Doc: ‘But?’ Ass: “The grant money’s been spent, contracts have been sealed, NDAs signed and DNA taken, dogs set upon whistleblowers. We’re kind of in the paint, sir. There’s money in the pot, there’s iron in the fire. Doc: “Yes i see what you mean” Narrator: He drank his coffee black, like his heart. Doc: “I wonder if people know what I mean…” Ass: “Lets return to first hypotheses: Doc: We’re trying to learn if people think the way I think Feel the way I feel. So let's get even more basic. Narrator: So the next little boy, was pulled out of the earth, And stuck into a chair A single bulb glistened in the darkness, his interrorgators behind it. Doc: “Now tell me boy, - “Answer me Empirically, phenomenologically and non-existentially… and no mention of chemicals: Do You Feel What I Feel?“ Plato: I dunno… Narrator: said the child, scared and confused… Plato: How do you feel? Doc: “I think we’re onto something. He made that face, which is how I feel!’ Ass: “You feel, scared and confused? Doc: a combination of two, at times, yes. Narrator: The boy sat up, he looked elated! Doc: ‘Look! He did it again!’ “He might be the one, we don’t know for sure though… maybe we should try another” Assistant: “And what do we do, with this boy?’ Doc: Give him a book, mild and light. Give him the plato, that should sate his appetite? Narrator: And so they gave him the apology to read, and his mind was filled with images of courtrooms, and hemlock, and gadflies and heroes, and mealy mouthed politicians. And ultimately, the name stuck. Test subject: Plato. But we shall return to him. Narrator: Up next another boy. Full of chemicals and smelling of snails. Boy 6: ‘Wotcha’ DOc: Tell me, do you feel how I feel? Answer honestly/ Narrator: The boy gave a quizzical look, then a sneer. Boy 6: “Nah I could never feel that pathetic” Doc: ‘Loathing… this one might be onto something to’ Ass: ‘Could be paternal?’ Doc: ‘Could be…’ Ass: ;should i send him to the pulper? Doc: ‘Why not? his face annoys me’ Narrator: And Plato looked out of his window, as the boy he grew next to was taken away, to god knows where... To where the boys went after they were questioned. To the room with the loud machine, and the screams, and the horrible, squelchy noises. And Plato sat silently, and read his book, trying not to think of what would come next. Doc: ‘That one had a mulchable face’ *** Gardener 1: One last boy, before my shift is over, Narrator: the gardener thought, Gardener 2: ‘They’re really tearing through them now’ Gardener 3: “I ‘eard they got one up in a room, reading books’ Gardener 1: ‘Books,’ Narrator: spat the gardener, Gardener1: ‘books are no good for a growing lad. They need slugs to squish, and girls to tease, and sun on their head and dirt on their knees’ Gardener 2: ‘Oh Goeffrey you are a cad, lets send them the one we grew in manure.’ Narrator: Mudshod, and messy, the final boy came though. Traipsing dirt along the pristine halls. With dandelions growing out his fingernails, and tubers behind his ears. Doc: ‘This boy is very dirty’ Ass: ‘Yeah. How do you feel to be covered in muck?’ Narrator: The boy shrugged. Dill: “It’s how i’ve always been” Doc: “Do you like it? Does it please you’ Dill: “To be one with the dirt, and the mud and the flowers? Yeah… not a thrill - but a wallowing feeling” Doc: ‘I like this one, we’ll call him Dill.’ Ass: ‘So we’ll send him to live with plato, and what book should he read. Doc: ‘Give him the titchmarsh autobiography’ SFX - *door closes* Plato: Hello Dill : Hello Plato: You’re awfully grubby Dill: And you’re awfully clean. Plato: They call me Plato Dill: They call me Dill Plato: They say i’m a marvel Dill: They say i’m a nuisance Plato: They say a lot of things, don’t they? Dill: They dooo. Dill: What do you do for fun, Plato? Plato: I read, and sometimes I think. Dill: Fuckin’ Wild mate. You ever eat bugs? Plato: Bugs? Dill: Yeah. Narrator: Dill wiggled his finger in his ear, and found an earwig. He held it twixt finger and thumb and crunched it down with all his teeth Plato: Ew. Dill: Ew? Yeah? Plato: Yeah. Dill: Fair, takes all sorts. … Dill: So, you wanna destroy this whole system? Plato: What? Dill: You wanna fuck shit up? Plato: Uhhhh….. Sure. Dill: That’s tight. Narrator: And so the boys, at dead of night, snuck into the garden And they dug out all the other boys and filled their heads with jargon Of revolution, anti-capitalis and institutional violence And then out of spare garden tools they fashioned themselves makeshift pikes And they marched upon the sleeping quarters of the men who kept them hostage, and on the men that grew them and on the men that siphoned knowledge from their brains about what was good, or right, or felt, and afterwards they knelt in pools of blood and drew up plans of how to escape the clutching hands of the bastard who were coming next, the dogs and spooks that came for their heads. So a time to hatch a plan arrived, and they did, and all but most survived. Dill left plato to a dog Dill: ‘the boy is weak’ Narrator:” he thought to himself Dill:‘he knows nothing of the mud, and soil and sinew of a boy possessed by rage. Fear kills the mind and sadly Plato weren’t that brave. Doc: What a monumental fuck up! What an absolute shit show! How on earth did this happen?! Who the fuck else’s in the know?! Ass: Well, you see, it was the boys You picked out specially to not be mulched And as a result, you’ll see, good sir, That now the whole project’s up in smoke. Doc: Well fuck, he slumped back in his chair Now how will i answer my questions Ass: Well we still have one boy left in storage Though to be frank he’s gravely wounded By dogs that tore him limb from limb And he may never walk again But ultimately he’ll be fine Considering the mulcher’s his next line. Doc: Well come on, show me to the boy, I wish to see him as quick as poss. Ass:Very well sir, right this way sir, as you say, sir, you’re the boss. Narrator: In a bed, he lay quite still Desparate not to tear his stitches, The young boy Plato, breathing weakly In his regulation britches. Doc: You see here, young plato, you’ve drawn away the attention Towards you and away from my grand invention, Of finding out whether folks like me, Can feel the feelings of dudes like you. I’m losing patience in the process. My attention is being drawn away To greater projects of bigger import. And that’s all I have to say. So what do you have to say for yourself? Plato: Well, in my reading, I have learnt that there is such a thing as trouble Socrates found himself in trouble when he tried to teach the youth And that lead people clamouring at his door Seeking that he be put to death. Now I, am just a young boy, And I have great fears in my heart I am not like Socrates, Old, and wise, or not wise, perhaps just stubborn, Perhaps just old. But he had faith enough in his convictions that He was willing to die for them. But I have no convitions, I have no agenda I’m just a boy who read a book. And Dill was just a boy made of mud And the nature of him lead me astray And now i find myself back here, To face my fate without him. And beyond everything I am just scared, Of the mulcher, of you, of this facility. But I know no other home, and don’t know if my Education of ancient greek philosophy Will really send me on my way To anything other than podcasting. Or teaching Or flipping burgers Or gardening Or just adding to the same tradition. I don’t know if i’d change the world, Perhaps i would in some small way. But none of that is possible If today’s my final day Narrator: The assistant stood, to the left hand side The boy was seated to the right The assistant, waited patiently With the lever in his hand To send the boy to go be mulched And make the new batch for the questions But plato stared on pleadingly. No more time for refutations. Ass: “We did say no existential answers.” Narrator: He sighed, and nodded, the bed tipped backwards and out of sight. Doc: Do people feel what I feel? That’s all i wanted to know, alright. Ass: Well we’ve had our samples… and the evidence is clear, that whatevers inside your head is not the same as whats’ in theirs, though versions of it maybe true Doc: Versions are not the thing itself Ass: You're quite correct, so the answers no. Doc: Good. Glad to have an answer. Narrator: How does that make you feel?