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the Atomic

Today we bear witness to some truly spectacular carnage

ATOM_CMYK2

Ἀργειφόντης
ne mē swōr fela āða on unriht

Zephyr

Better bad news, half-true more-or-less, 100% of the time

dragon024

breaking Newz

op-ed

what the heck is going on?

by Little Johnny

every day we hear new news, those ordinary rumours of war, plagues, fires, thefts, murders, massacres, meteors and comets, prodigies and dullards, beasts and apparitions, towns taken, cities besieged, gain-of-function crimes against humanity, and such like. 
thousands and thousands of generations of people who suffered birth, disease, starvation and lonely death so that you could sit there today.. the redeemer of the human enterprise, the prodigal species, descended into the inferno of matter to recover the pearl of immortality, whose virtues wounded by our worthless words; whomst’d’ve will speak & thy praises tell?

tortoise hour

by Jam Ælfwin

Tortoises actually come out of their shell in the wild when they go for a nice swim or foraging up trees for tomatoes.
“EXPERTZ” say the tortosaurus can also do that thing where if they fall they spin in the air and always land on their feet, just like cows.
When did the tortoise evolve?
The same time as cigars, I think. After fish, definitely. Around 1932, thereabouts?
BONUS FACT:
Legend says the tortongle’s favourite food is sausages.

inflation!

by Mungo Clange

you won’t believe this but back in my day, you could fly to nu-york, have lunch, a bottle of merlot, go and see that overpriced Broadway show all the ponces like, fly back same night, taxi from the airport back home and STILL have change from 1000 quid. it’s true. when was that you say? last Wednesday. yes, yes we all remember last Wednesday, don’t we? back when we could fill up the ol’ shanks-pony with petrol and still have a fiver in change from a 300 pound note.

see this? that’s a tenner that is. collector’s item. what can you get for one nowadays? precious little. back in the heydays, one of these puppies could get you a whole round of toast with gravel on it. not buttered toast, obviously, but a whole ration of breadystacks with some cheeky nuttygum & fruit spleggings! when was that you say? Wednesday, 1942.

back in the day, right, for ten quid you could build a cottage in the Cotswolds, settle down, have the pick of any woman, have 5 kids, and STILL have money left to start a business… when was that you say? Wednesday, 1832.
“ten whoppers?! that’s outrageous!” well yes that’s what it costs to sail to America, steal some land, purchase some powerful Igbo folk and STILL start a cotton farm. When was that you say? Last Wednesday, 1748.
“bloody ripoff!” i remember a time when with a tenner you could buy your own Peter Pomegranate, hire an entire crew of shipmates, sail to the west indies with as much rum as you needed, as much tobacco as you wanted, provisions for an entire year, the pick of any woman, have 12 kids, and STILL have several hundred guineas left in change… when was that you say? Wednesday, 1593.

look at this big frog

by Jam Ælfwin

why is he so big?

 (o)(o)
 / .. )___
 -___ '-_
 '- _ _ '.
 //// `.'.
 =' //'--__).
 =' ='

apple Mc’iMac Twin Turbo Wank Edition Review

by Matilda Milkwyrm

When you buy an Apple McIntush, you are essentially bending over and getting buggered by the ghost of Stephen Jobbles, as you blow a couple thousand whoppers on a glorified MciPad with a keyboard.
This thing has the computing power of a toaster. No usb ports, 1tb of storage on an ancient ssd from the 90s, crapfire graphics API, and an operating system designed by people with borderline personality disorder. Can’t even run milkytracker without crashing every 4 seconds.
They don’t even pay taxes in this country and still upcharge based on currency value, creepy little chimney bottlers.
Biffa/10

Local

Atomic Tooth Finish ^Rock n’ Dole^ Tour

by Wayne Car

Local band “Cosmic Strewth” are promoting their upcoming album for the vegan eco-fascist record label: Subterranean Protoplasmic y2k Atomic Intrusions Incorporated, and we invited them back due to public demand and complaints about the last interview.

—Welcome back, seems you have a new member?

Jingo: I was always here you mongo, you lot are too blind to see Puckfolk ever since Robin Goodfellow.
Juice: Jingo’s on Anglo concertina, harpsichord & tin whistle.
Jingo: Our previous flautist Jethro had trouble remembering his name so we dropped him down a lift shaft in Kalifornia.
Jam: ‘Ello wayne mate

—Yeah hi. How did the California tour go?

Jam: Had a lovely time in the Great Satan. Real proud of ourselves, in 3 nights we did over 7 million quid worth in damage apparently.

—How many people came to the concerts?

Johnny: 5
Jam: short circuit.

—5…Hundred? 5000?

Juice: nah, 5.
         Jingo: 12 if you count the roadies. 3 better than Nu-York, and on the Cotswolds tour we got sweet fanny adams.

—What’s the group doing now?

Jam: Jingo’s doing house arrest for throwing a flautist down a lift shaft. Longshanks has this niggling brain injury since 1322BC, if it wasn’t obvious already. Oh and our Johnny is starting AA, drinks far too much scrumpy. He’d be playing bottleneck guitar & drinking out the bottle at the same time.. Even our manager Mortimer wanted to fire the lad so we fired that spacko instead
         Jingo: And gave him a right & proper wedgy/chinese burn combo.

—As a band you’re very prone to violence, is it true that in Australia you burnt down your audience?

Johnny: t’was a misunderstanding.
Juice: Johnny’s lute lasers accidentally torched a bikini…
         Jingo: Combine that with a veritable hell-on-earth, fire emoji laughing/crying face
         Jam: Easy mistake to make tbh fire emoji 2 times 100.
Jingo: Violence is really great you know. It’s only when we’re being really violent that we’re truly at peace. That’s one of Shyloque’s sayings that is.
Shyloque: Howdy.
Juice: He’s our new tour guru.

—Guru? from California?

Juice: No he’s from London.
         Jingo: Same thing.
Jam: He worked in Wetherspoons before we hired him as our full time guru.

—Why do you have a guru?

Juice: Well we were searching for the lizard people underneath Loose Angles, so after wading through a load of “the village people” we finally found an entrance into the cosmic ovum, and in the tunnels below there was this bloke knocking about, dressed up like one of those clowns with the ponchos spouting word salad about “mother gaia” you know? and we like a good word salad, so we invited him along.
Jam: Bloody love a bit of gobbledygook!
Jingo: Eastern conmen? Philosophical hodgepodge? Corporate marketing gibberish? Communitarian techno-babble? Yuppie uptalk? Yes please!
Johnny: lingual spellz, canticles of the social enginee r
         Jam: Absolutely rat-arsed he is look

—Did you find the lizard people?

Jingo: No, but they find you eventually.
Jam: I reckon they’re all knockin’ about in that Washing Tongue Duck place
Shyloque: Mrs Flimflam sez – To undurstend errythang, we muzt know nothang, y’all.. ayynd to know nothaaang, is to druly undurstend errythaaang!

—Oooo yeah, nice & vague. I can get off on that.. who is Mrs Flimflam?

Juice: That’s his landlady. She gets these terrific insights in to “man’s true nature” and he sells them to a West End shop.

—Are they good?

Jam: They’re expensive. 

—Woaw.

Juice: Shyloque got the heinous idea to stick little word salads throughout our album

—When’s it out?

Jam: Saint Tibb’s day, we’re releasing it in 72 part segments with big gaps in so when it’s sold to Hollywood it can have tons of commercials because they love those.
Johnny: -where th scrumpy  ?

—Well I’m sure all 5 of your listeners are very excited!

Jam: Cheers, piccadilly.
Juice: You haven’t changed one bit wibbly wobbly wayne.
Jingo: passive aggressive poofter

—I don’t like you. I don’t like your band, your terrible music, and most of all I don’t like my P’PAH who called me an oik throughout my childhood.

Jam: it’ll be alright mate, chin up.
Juice: You are an oik, Wayne.
Jingo: A freakish little homunculus of a man.
Johnny: my kingdom 4 a cider
         Jam: Wassail, lad

There we have it, netizens, another superb interview by Me, I’m firing on all cylinders if I do say so Myself. See you next week for another journalistic masterpiece by Moi, Wayne Car.

local nutter found in gutter

by Wimpey Roadstone

His subculture hollowed out, a flash in the pan, leveraged to sell burgers and bouncy ball shoes across the pond.

CONT. ON PAGE 11.

oswald’s outting

by Tudor Sykes

The local wizard left his tower on the edge of the Cotswolds for the city earlier this morning, to visit the dark satanic mills where Fishfingers are made.
I seek not applause; ’tis the common doom of all. My business is my own.” He told us, before scuttling back in to the wilderness with armfuls of Fishfinger boxes.

Battle-o’-the-Bards Interview with Losers – Atomic Shoes

by Wayne Car

A 300 head marquee bash, wassailing and laser light show turn’d metal festival, and this dungheap of a band were top of the bill. A three (and a quarter) piece prog combo gigging extensively in pubs up and down England under the moniker – “Atomic Doom”

Juice: Not our name

—What was it again? Sonic Tooth?

Jam: Atomic Gerbil Orchestra
Juice: Spice Xers
Johnny: our name is sung both near & far on lipz of ghoulz & tonguez of bardz

—Why are you blue/green? Aliens? Are you ill? What’s with all the arms?

Jam: Glandular condition; their cross to bear
Juice: Cradle to grave radiation, baby.
Johnny: @ the hue men gaped aghast, in her face & form that show’d; as a fay-man fell she pass’d, & green all over glow’d
Juice: billions of becquerels of strontium-90, cesium-137 & tritium floating about.
Jam: Cyning Herla took a dip in the Wye & never came back.
         Jingo: I don’t blame him.

— What’s this about being a virtual band? Not real?

Jingo: I know right? Cheeky little sausages.
Juice: Atomic Youth is a [the] real world
Johnny: the perception of Truth as ideology imposed upon reali-T
Jingo: De-ontologised!
Johnny: re-juiced 2 mere stuff on which the wylle acts in termz of deed
Jam: Savvy?

—Right. Can you just say when your ‘record’ is out or what plectrums you use or something?

Jam: AYV I-V SUNSET TRAJECTORY, AVAILABLE 17/10/17 ON ALL THE USUAL SUSPECTS.
Juice: Only thing worse than the music biz are ‘journalists’ most of whom wipe from back to front and eat dry wall.
Johnny: the mitred peacock’s lofty cry shall 2 his master be a guide
Jam: Wibbly wobbly Wayne
Johnny: a creature of growth & capable of sweetness

—Can we just use your “music” on a giveaway CD to help our magazine sales?

Jingo: Ooo who is “we”?
Johnny: u lard ur lean books w/ the fat of others works
Juice: Told you, the music business is still a dumpster fire of sleaze and perks..
Jam: Jiggery pokery days of mass bribes & cocaine weekends are done-zo, tho
Juice: When Cher’s first album came out every journalist and radio DJ was provided with poppers and a groupie who never learnt to speak
Johnny: Caesar doth bestride the narrow world

—This has gone off-piste, we didn’t cover this in rainbow class.

Jingo: Hope that bourgeois stuff didn’t come out of my taxes!
Johnny: ̆▅●▄█▅||█▄▅||█●~ ::~ :►
Juice: You guys ever looked up Operation Darkroom? Interesting stuff.
Jam: What’s your favourite vegetable, mate? Mine’s the humble pineapple ’tis.

—Is a pineapple even a vegetable??

Juice: Wtf
Johnny: base and illiterate scribbler
Jam: Come on, piccadilly

—Ok then, a pineapple is a vegetable.

Juice: Now you sound like a real hip & happening journalist
Jingo: Have you thought about learning to code?

This interview is redacted and the band were asked to leave the building. Next week we ask the question: Are people difficult bastards or not? To help us find out we will interview a really difficult bastard, and the bishop of Somerset.

worulde

Trumpton slave trade

by Huxley Babkins

Windy Miller, a native of the anarcho-authoritarian caste-based Anglo ethno-state of Camberwick Green, was caught smuggling continentals into the village last Tīƿesdæȝ evening. Four score and seven gopniki were found toiling under Colly’s Mill for the dictator, with poor workplace conditions and a pittance of payment in Parma Violets. Since last week merlot swilling ponces have been protesting in favour of foreign slave labour, prancing down London streets waving laminated signs reading: “💕CONTINENTALS YOKED TO GEAR & WHEEL!💕” & “bUT wHo WiLl GRiNd thE bArLeY??” & many more slogans. Windy has been reported as being an alcoholic who “gets rat arsed on ‘bathtub wine’ regularly” by his now estranged wife, Mizz Miller. 

sandwich squabbles

by Pippin Pribble

A national state of emergency has been declared across the Falkland Islands yesterday after an argument spread from a local pub. The disagreement, which started as a difference of opinion on sandwiches, now involves over 1000 people across the islands. Professional negotiators were sent in but could not resist becoming embroiled in the mess. Television stations have gone off air as otherwise polite presenters have erupted into swearing and twatting one another across the bonce. A statement from the home secretary says that unless the quarrel is broke up by morning, they may have to resort to a “thermonuclear solution”.

nosce te ipsum

by clownworld’s all-encompassing quantum soup

protean technopriests at it again

by Sheila d’Pee-Qinq

In the dark & cursed realm of oosuh, the technopriests of babylon valley have developed revolutionary marketing innovations, terraforming the hearts and minds of the youth, and the very landscape of goofy corporate advertising as we know it.
Soon your DNA will be stored and your genome used to target advertisements based on your genetic disposition!” says Toomgis Jaffarson, a core developer on the Cyborg-Grey-Soup-Kinda-Thing™ project. One of our stateside correspondents reached out for further comment:

Angus Belleville Rendezvous: “Hello, think you could sum up this quantum bio-algorithm thing for a semi-educated, know-it-all moron like me?
Toomgis Jaffarson: “Sure thang y’all! Well, you start with the firstborns, you see? Cook ’em up all roasty toasty, extra crispy.” *gestures with decrepit coder claw*
Angus Budokai Tenkaichi: “You like ‘em crispy, too, eh? Haha. Ha. Hehe
Toomgis Precious-Eagle-Cactus-Fruit: “Crispy critters! Inject vegetable oil, pinch of progesterone, SSRIs, pop an amphetamine or 12, and a good old vivisection or two..
Angu B: “xD
Toomgu J: “..Magic dirt, neuroplastic ellipse, freedom-slave, piss, nano-particulates of aloominum, ethyl mercury.. and that’s about it. Oh and the chants! Of course… can’t forget the chants! The chants of power. They’re essential to our everyday work. The chants. Chanting.
Angu: “Woaw, that’s just fascinating, thanks!
Toomg: “No probz, anything for a homie, you know?
Ang: “Aye babe.

rainbow thunder
   chained to the world
dandies revel
   in steel cathedrals
hollywood history

 

blood & swash!

by Peter Pomegranate

Cornish fishermen have been attacked by a Spanish trawler in a new fishing war. One sloop limped back to port, three sheets to the wind, after Spaniards off the coast of Land’s End cut nets and other equipment worth thousands. Word around the scuttlebutt is ‘Neo-Queen-Anne’s-Revenge’ & ‘Turbo-Ark-Royal’ will set sail on the morrow, over ganotes bæþ, to deliver a broadside or 5.

lonely hearts

cecil pendragon, gnome seeking friendship

Cecil Pendragon, Cabbage Farmer

helo, my name cecil
just a lonely gnome looking for frend
i like shire horses they go clip clop.,
when i play monopol;y i put a little worm in each hotel make em feeel special for a bit
u can msg me on myspace if u liek. tyvm

Virile, pickwickian Lawyer

Jeremy Sphincter, Lawyer/Stamp Collector

I would have really liked to re-catalogue my stamps today but I became embroiled in some kind of senseless stoush with my neighbour. He has trees classified as “noxious weeds” around these parts, and these things are HUGE. They are getting into my plumbing via their behemoth root systems! Anyway, it’s going to cost me thousands to replace all the plumbing under the ground and my neighbour just says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE” so I said, “Sir, it’s worse than that; your tree branches are as thick as three bowling balls and they’re hanging in my roof guttering as we speak! The ants are using the branches as a bridge to my new air con and the whole system is infested!”. Again he says “wEll yOu ShoULd hAve THoUgHt aBoUT tHaT bEfoRe YoU bOugHt tHe hOUsE!”
So anyway, I have no mood for stamps today please come back Carol.

Has Science Gone Too Far? IS THIS IMAGE REAL OR FAKE?

Ads byGrendel

hwilum princess seeks bygones

Muriel Mutcliffe, Ex Vlogger

Banera-03Smart, sexy, strong and very unique princess, 36 years young, who has life all figured out; desires to meet a very wealthy man. I have a masters degree in microdosing, I’ve worked as a vlogger, shaman and actress/model. I’ve made no life decisions from childhood up until this magical point where I finally escaped the clutches of my narcissistic partners. Now I’m tired almost to nausea of this artificially-elevated-bourgeois-semi-poverty and its restrictions. I seek not merely a human bank account, but a man of physical attraction 6ft or above, as caretaker to me and my expected child. Working class men need not apply.

tall, handsome yoga instructor

Patrick Peccadillo, Pastor of Muppets

Howdy, top of the marnin’ to y’all, i’m an Irish buddhist and yoga instructor♥️✌🏻. didja ever consider being with a reincarnaliated sagacious manly yoga instructor (aka me)?
i am 100% NOT gay and straight as a fiddle. i’m a yoga instructor btw, i love the fee-males. i’m a good guy, i teach yoga, i’m a real catch, FLEXIBLE as heck. really into peace & love n all that shite, oh and a bit of hANKY PANKY hehe. can’t stop talking about where todgers go hahA. yeeeah. just a cooool chill guy all around.
babe, you are an ASCENDED MISTRESS…lay me out and treat me like i deserve! it’s a fecking CERTAINTY that the best way to get people to do what you want is to tell them EXACTLY what they WANT to hear. they don’t care that you’re 5ft6 when you’re a yoga instructor (like me).
Fax me your shoe size, bra size, height, + your address and i’ll get back to ya quick as a fiddle.

Strong woman seeks spontaneous Neanderthal

Gretchen Ogreburg, Tribal Queen

I am the leader of an Aztec community that semi-conquered Cheddar, Somerset in the Dark Ages according to a strange website run by someone with a superiority complex.
I spend my days fighting for ever increasing concessions & benefits from local government, and the inalienable right to commit human sacrifice on tax payer subsidised step pyramids.
I’m looking for a big Neanderthal to hold hands on a bi-weekly basis; please send a pic of your ‘IGF-1 2D:4D ratio’ to my email – xXGretchy-babeXx@hotmail(dot)com. Little academic men need not apply.

Cavewomxn

schizophrenia corner

by Ciril Bazbaz

hello and welcome to schizophrenia corner, and a very big welcome from both of me, isn’t that right? Yes it certainly is.
We’d like to start off right away, wouldn’t we? Yes we certainly would; by introduci- uhh should i go on? Nono after you, you sure? yes please. Positive? Certainly… introducing our very special guests Simon Scuff-Jones, the psycho analyst taking the pseudoscience world by storm. Two psychoanals? No just the one he’s schizophrenic, too. Ah so sorry, not at all, i love you, love you too, sure? *sniffs* mmm.

Scuff-Jones, welcome to the intervie-
WHAT DO YOU MEAN? 
Pardon?
WHAT DO YOU MEAN? “I DRINK TOO MUCH”? I DO NOT.
Professor you’re here about the condition of schiz-
WHERE WHERE WHERE? GET UNDER THE CHAIR!
What!?
I’M GETTING OUT OF THIS CRAPHOLE! EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF! *jumps out window*

Well that was Simon Scuff-Jones, best selling psycho analyst, wasn’t it? Yes it certainly was.
i wrote a poem once, and me, yes how did it go? that’s right.

A Cultural Mess of Pottage:
some people try to pick up birds and they get called an asshole.

well, this never happened to Fabio Gestapo.
he could walk down your street & ladies could not resist his bravado, so Fabio Gestapo never got called an asshole.
women would turn the colour of an avocado when he drove down their street in his Eldorado.
Fabio Gestapo never got called an asshole.
oh well be not hollow, be not bell-bottom bummer bitter machismo, this is the story of Fabio Gestapo.
he could slither down their street and chicks could not resist his bravado, so Fabio Gestapo never got called an asshole.
not like you.

Goodbye from me at Schizophenia Corner, and cheerio from me. See you next week with the ghost of famous chomo nonce, John Money. Tata for now, and a big kiss on the nose. Little forward.. Jealous? Not at all, you’re so controlling sometimes you know. Oh shutup.

Conspiracy Corner aka Spoiler Alerts

by Timothy Troat, Excelsior

2020 and we are nearing the peak of solar cycle 25, and here we are, yet another blip on the index of mass human excitability, another statistic in the biophysics of sunspots and the effects on animal behaviour/epidemics. if you could please keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times, i’m about to go off, queen. put aside today’s bourgeois identity-american, put aside the wannabe Lilliputians tying down Gulliver, put aside decades of such people stewing in clownworld’s all-encompassing quantum soup, just for a moment.
imagine a pathogen penetrating neural networks, a highly adaptive neurotropic agent for primates, passing the blood-brain barrier. quiescent infection, churning out viral copies in neurons, degrading the network. the infective component; systemic coagulopathy, a brain fading agent. now look back at the world circus. contamination behaviours, tourettisms, violence & chaos (even in chimps/gorillas), spitting & shitting, huge uptick in accidents, assaults, terrorism, a worldwide impulse control disorder. this is not some babybrain man-child revolutionary spirit… this whole gain-of-function dual-use technology freakshow is already endemic.
elseways, welcome to the prion party. bring your own bottle.

philosophy centre

by Splig Fastland

Watch out, there’s an aggressive new philosopher on the streets calling himself “Kung Fucius” that’s been causing a ruckus, and even assaulting multiple philosophy softies during debates. Philosofties. 
On page 72 we analyse a brand new theory by Maoam Chomsky that “Plato was actually a little sissyboy that didn’t wear any panties!
In local news, a chemist from Lydney has called Nietzsche “a silly little oik with a room temp IQ!“, Mrs Lampwick of Chipping Campden has said that Rousseau was “a foppish, froggy fatty” and Miss Brackets Pamela Betterment of the tenements Billston has referred to Empedocles of Akragas as “a half baked bubble git with the brains of a birk“.

In this weeks philosophy corner we examine a report that leading West End shops are selling their own philosophy, and we ask the question:
Is the viability of empirical knowledge simply the denial of apriori concepts of essence? Or, is the existential state (in the teleological sense of Cock Pooper’s falsifiability criterion) another form of Occam’s razor? or are you being done up like a kipper?
Mr Usury, chief philosophy salesman at a leading West End shop is here to respond:

This is simply not true, our philosophy department provides the best, the most exclusive and certainly the most expensive philosophy in the world. What is more, our philosophy is sold by proper salesmen in suits, and not flogged by scruffy little dweebs! Fortnum & Mason philosophy starts at around 18k per annum, but our shop starts at a whopping 20k per year. It’s based on what Kant called ‘pure wealth’ you see, we pander to the rich. Marshall & Snelgrove philosophy states that: ‘If thee hath no moneys, ye are as a tiny piece of auteur in the eyeholes of extremely ryche folk.’ It is as easy for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heofon as it is to stick a needle into a camel. Don’t believe me? Just across the bridge over yonder you’ll find the pet department where Maudlin the camel awaits the Doubters Needle. Conclusive proof.

—B-b-but Mista Usury sire, what if we be poor & such?

If you are poor then you should sell what little you have and give it to the extremely rich. It makes them much much much much richer. Harrod’s philosophy teaches us that ‘All wealth belongeth to the extremely ryche. If thou were to steal from the ryche then thou must be kill’d, for better it is- to be dead than poor’, a maxim from the gift department.

gossip centre

by Mrs Brackets Pamela Betterment of the tenements Billston

Turns out Cyril Dingle’s heart attack came about after he learned that Pippin was his illegitimate son, conceived after a quick knee trembler behind the bike sheds with Sheila Tinsel in her notorious “lady-o’-the-night” costume, she doesn’t half get around that Sheila, eh?

The foghorn of ignorance was tooted near noon last thursday and word around the village is that Suzy Hang-around’s boy was seen skulking about 10 minutes after the fact. Despite stating he was going to get his hands dirty, dive in at the deep end and finally get to the bottom of things, flirtatious liaisons with both Bronson and Tweedy intimate that Padge’s role is merely in a ‘hush hush’ capacity. There has been plenty of smoke to suggest the fire lies behind Mrs. Rump’s backdoor but nothing in the local press, seems like another cover up. However, I was impressed with her stellar contribution in the arrest of the notorious hoodlum “Wanksy” last week, under the misuse of stencils act 1975.

Yesterday school trip students from a primary school in London returned home so we’d like to say a big thankyou and goodbye to: Albus, Zinedine, Slazenger, Francisco, Justice, Omar II, B’DingDing, Emeralda, Paris (silent s), Hamilton, d’Grass, xee-a 12, Barack, Sashimi, Neptune, Coachella, Ochre jr, Walnut and Eddie-the-peasant.  Good luck & Godspeed, little atoms.

poetry corner

by The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!

Allo und velcom to ze poetry cornah! Yas yas it is me, Cyril Bazbaz again but I just love to writing in ze superior Übermensch accent, ya? Tonight we has a very fantastisch selekschun off poems for you! oo ya.
Our first piece is an elegy by Tina Borshan who’s an 11th year sociology student at Chicken-Soup University.

cocoon
gravid, damp
rubbing, longing, crying
worship, cave, fantasy, slave
weeping, riding, birthing
arid, pink
piss
(this is a critique of terminal kapital)
subscribe to my onlyfans btw

Woawee, supah stuff ya? A big zank you to Tina! don’t you just love modern artiztes, who needs talent, ya?
Now onto our next poet who is completely illiterate, and a recovering alcoholic, and an orphan, and looks weird, locked away in a country house in deepest England for centuries, a real mind job, and did i mention illiterate?.. a modern day Cynewulf! Here is Little Johnny with his first ever poem, Phantom Future:

o dreadspawn! thou that mediateth thru cloudz of subtlety @ the watch doors of hades… blinded all 2 the course of single raindrops, every moment a tremendous celebration.. but we tear up & trample the invite.
each chain’d 2 a pinhead of light, brizzle drizzle webs the horizon while the realm spins immaculate thru silver strands, shell holes pocking roof tiles; Hwicce, this landscape of nouns.

now a clown screams & opposites fall ounce by ounce making innocents of criminals & turncoats of all. in fickle frenzy the poet’s eye & pencil’s point moves no more, & as imagination fades, the form of things known turn 2 babylon’s whore. a body w/out organs, 2 airy nothing giveth shame, a distant whimper in cinders of extinguished flame.
harken 2 the beat of swaying feet that creak beneath bare trees; the breath of yesterday playing in leaves. a rhapsody of rags & moth-eaten flags & worm eaten poles unstirring your soul. the rebel sons of riot, þēow & serf, whom toil’d
in fog & field inert. thousands of years of a people’s blood wails through soil & mud & wassail. the caves groan with the shackled & martyred. rivers of ichor that made these streets of stone that were paved, bartered away, orphaned, betrayed & hid, robbed of history, bowdlerised & rebranded. the woruldcandel blinds & the realm shines benign as blobs waddle thru smart cities in search of foreign dine. with every week a spectacle to keep them in line, clapping & tapping they’ll cheer the decline. gaze with dumbstruck wonder at crystal domes of plunder, a giddy & feckless fable; buy it all, no homes but stuff our faces with crumbs from the merchant’s table..
syncretised, colonised, appropriated.
what happens when historicity is forbidden? rewritten? castrated?
who cares.
however much they try to murder and rewrite history for narrow idiotic purposes,
the remains of the corpses lie everywhere to be seen, and even heard.
the arcane simplicity of verisimilitude.
“ah yeth, *twiddles hith jabot* the arcane simplithity of verithimilitude!” says the ponce, as he sells it down the river.
a phantom future for all

Woaw he said it, he said the thing! Wunderbar! Just unglaublich. Not really, very amateur trash today but we will see you next week for even more poetry by local weirdos, only available at The Art Collective: UNHAPPY, DISGUSTING, WOW!