The Gates to Dismaland

By | 1 November 2016
A coastline, strung by						
(Larkin) ‘forgotten boredom,’ studded
with distant faux pas.                                                             London Bridge,	  			  
                                                                                                                                falling or nay,                         Wet meat-like
Though                                                                                      ’tis like a wedge,                     Simon Cowell
The snoring cliffs ask                                                             ’tis not?                                     falls from the
whether fun was ever the problem.                                                                           black grey sky
                                                                                                                                A bridge rules                        in the old man
                                                                                                                                                                    And      is snoring	
                                                                                                                                                                                  and overboard
The sky: optimistic as Martin Amis after his third wank for the day. All London tourists do is hump bricks. Here a’ Dismaland, lad, they queue up for hours for some disenchanted castle, petrol tankers made taffy, fake security hassles. Don’t fucking touch the graffiti, it’s heritage listed. No spray cans, but there’ll be Damon Albarn on Tuesday. You know. He sang the shipping report. Get knotted. retinue Four quid’ll get you in have a look around ensemble
There are no staircases: zoning you can look down from anywhere. staff Banksy is a spectre over Old Europe, rounding up, a gust of well-priced shadows muttering in the awning of the Tate, and this is his Kingdom, Unreal City, this shrine to melting solids It is now safe to Brexit your computer Love your neighbor. Talk is that the Arab refuses to exhibit near the Israeli, but Banksy patches it up. As Pussy Riot pussy riot, another Alf Garnett sunset yawns over a Damien Hirst beachball, yanking on the scrote for luck. Empire's splendour all rancid, like opening Tutankhamen's tomb, and finding nothing but jars of piss and nu-metal mixtapes After they pack up the old lido, cart away the objets, the Burning Man thingo, after Exit Through The You-Know-What, the baths will be empty again, and after all an empty swimming pool is a way of saying 900 years of swim elsewhere. And they do. Far from XBOX and Lucozade the village green TVs, betshop kids playing, they clog up the lovely postcard, travel dot com, they swim, wretched. Heaven knows, miserable. That joke isn’t funny anymore. But Strangeways here he comes burning books, the collected Archer, as if to say, there is enough here: we can begin to dismiss. First against the wall nonsense. Whither sorting hat. The fish and chip shop owner says it was l o v e l y, while it lasted. He’s exhausted, now, though. Too much business! Run off his feet. Finally, Every day was like Sunday. I press my nose into my jacket and report: How do I tell Ma’am that disappointment is expectation’s reward? How do you handle getting everything at once? Except to reject what comes next? People are taking photos of a water cannon. Diana allegory. A mother and child are to be dwarfed by a tsunami. Banksy is a succubus & any wet September you choose, you’ll find the centre cannot hold back your hair as you chunder on the pavement. BANG BANG, and not a shot fired. Listen I'm a million ages past you learnt to expect so many. I was not born to expect so many. As the baths were locked up to their solitude, we took down the tents, the notion being we give them to the refugees o’er in Cally. There’ll be a piece o’ Dismaland there. It’s fine though we tell em, you keep it May the sun never set. Contiki softly worms thru tin air. Some new light goes out on the harbour. Even the new P.J. harvey album sucks & The subject is closed

This entry was posted in 77: EXPLODE and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.