The UK government has introduced a technological breakthrough in food science to help alleviate the post Brexit famine.
The new food source, know currently as Brexit-green, claims to be made of entirely disposable sources.
Additionally the prime minister has announced a new service to help with the growing homeless problem. Homeless trucks will now gather up the UK’s street sleepers at night and take them to safe sleeping spaces.
Yacht rock may be one of the only things The DSM IV are not channeling in their tinnitus inducing live drum machine and guitar sets.
Guy McKnight is force of nature. Our Jane Fonda/Begbie hi-nrg cheerleader leading us into a sweat laden workout for the mind and body. Words we can decipher question the Gods with understated pop culture nods to Prince and Bowie, delivered with the menace of Glenn Danzig.
There is an arrogance and chaos to The DSM IV that reminds us of early Suicide or Jesus & Mary Chain. They know they are hot shit, and you are either with them for the ride, or should take a long walk – but you will be the one missing out.
Today we are lucky enough to welcome a guest mix & tail from Fog School.
It is already 7.20pm when I finally learn the reason for today’s exasperated human fizz.
I had noticed plenty of waxen, pale and lukewarm flesh parading up and down the street outside, smelling of sodium bicarbonate, swaying as to suggest some form of enraged joy, yet only now it dawns on me that this pastiche of a celebration is due to that interminable yearly torture they call the summer solstice.
Just quite why this is an actual, universal celebration, when hours stretch endlessly with the sole purpose of ruining a winter’s worth of delicious despair, will always be a mystery to me. Alas this year, winter has also failed. Nevertheless, on they celebrate.
I decide to perform the late evening curtains ritual early, so I draw them close and tight, now. Fixing the remaining uneven gap in the middle takes me a couple of agitated minutes; an impertinent Banshee takes advantage of this frustrated interval and manages to fly inside, but I promptly grab whatever I can and beat it to a pulp, showing it who’s boss.
I get to work.
It’s odd cos as a kid I adored the season; I harbored a very personal longing for flat areas of water, and had acquired the ability to transform solid surfaces and materials into the element.
If I concentrated hard enough, a bedsheet would become a rectangular blue pool, onto which I could float. I would then summon insolent waves made from listless towels, although they would never harm me. The heavy air would moisten my body, still the relief of water produced in any circumstance would rescue me, flat and deep in the fractures of the blind’s segmented shade.
Even turning things to ice offered another aquatic transformative possibility; empty streets covered in foetid asphalt would shift into lush frozen rivers, translucent lanes where I could skate undisturbed. Despite living not far from the beach, I still depended on the interrupted kindness of elders willing to take me there, my need for liquid relief growing only more cruel as the summer went on.
So I often created the sea at home.
Now I lay down the beats; they never shape up as how I intend them to be, but almost. The Banshee is in fact not at all beaten. It reshapes itself and bothers me with swathes of leaden heat; it shits syncopated muck on my neck, vomits staccato slivers down my idle crotch.
But I keep working, and despite predictable struggle, I get to the end.
I take my body to another point of safety, my bed. On its almost quadrangular surface, I quiver, I squirm. Surely these twitches can be matched to swirls of synth; I am terrified by another sleepless journey, the Banshee now licking my feet with its tongue made of corrugated soot.
Soon it’ll be moving up me, gross.
But I concentrate hard once more; the bed becomes my flying carpet, there is just me now, take off is nigh, where are we going, I ask no one.My legs are hysterical, my shoulders become compressed and if I hug myself even lightly I can feel the villain breathing.
I’m dancing. I’m throwing shapes, bitch, you watch me. I am dancing; once again, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.