HOW DO YOU DO?

How do you do… space

I beg of you

I need space, space from this taut tightness of grubby mass civilian thoughts and accusatory glances. Of the smells, rot and bodily expulsions bleeding inside my pore holes. Of that feeling of having to feel, care and do so much for so little in actual worth. Of adverts-adverts-adverts and news and TV humping heaps upon heap-hills of choice imposed and expected. That screeching carousel never halting instead becoming busier, louder, faster and darker every moment from the first moment it was glimpsed. I need space from it all, plus many o many miles more.

Bye space ship, hello spacious shit

Space is the place and I just don't have the juice. I’m no astronaut, I can't be. I have issues with rebellion and Americans constantly doing maths. Having my poo robotically sucked out, with the sound of Americans doing maths. Not being acutely adept at science, well not giving a stuff about science other than, bringing back dinosaurs, robots and the cure for Saturday night television. Stopped from exploring any interplanetary civilizations because we have to deliver a probe to an orbiting bin.

Left with just imagination, yes just, a bag of dodge mushrooms and six and a half hours before confinement to my fake feather bed. I split the sky several times, giddily giggle, receive imagery and hear voices to get all het up about. Much, much later, I fly into dreams that never quite become dreams and end up an annoying adjudication of the last six and a half hours whether I like it or not, over and over, less, then more, more then less. With no break, no space in mind or eye. This will be my release. This will be my release?

The ok outdoors

Even the open air isn't open, the whole of Nature Watch File are white man on a hill wankers. There are wasps trying to attack you because you need to eat a chatty sandwich, bogs, low branches, cow pats, dogs, people, everywhere you are now, there are people, people need to STOP having people. Pub, people, shop, people, concert to celebrate human achievement, people. I'm in my room and there are people, I did invite them but they're there. I look in the mirror and, yes, right back at me. Living in one of the most density-populated cities in the world out of choice, doesn't help. Any serenity ever achieved will in about twelve seconds be interrupted by a old man cough-counting down to his next cigarette.

If all the people I don’t already know and like, were replaced by say animals this could be a part solution. Morning chaffinches duet with swallowcocks instead of Roy and Sanj debate 10% growth strategy for the next quarter although Sanj would rather get down to business, business of retracting fiscal spending from non sured up lineages. When I get ravenous, I could eat Sanj the Hippo, and then they’ll be a bit more space. As long as my appetite holds up I could depopulate my local area with a weekly rider.

Turn off, tune out, drop in

Noise travels through space. Even if you have your own penthouse, flat or toilet, at the exact worst time you wish, a sonic puncture of; Mmmb boOm BOOm, Bub, Bub, Mmb, Barmb, BooM rides bareback boom box through your soul. I don't understand why or how someone, anyone would need a base 80 times louder than a treble. It sounds fucking awful. Not even Bomb the Bass’s - Bass Bass Big Boom Bass, needs that. 15 'll do.

You’re in my PS

No one calls it that, I think, but personal space is something people kind of give a toss bout here in London and probably other places, wherever the hell they are. But there's always that moment when you’re hunched up in a train, forced to stare at the wild back hairs of a Spanish lady while an exhausted armpit rapes your nostrils. Then some thrifto gets on with the entire pointy contents of his home in bags and expects it to fit into the 3-inch space ahead; 2 inches of which are populated by you. So you end up in a 21st century room 101, tranced into freak show assisted strangulation, preferring to smell crusty diarrhea on a pig’s anus while spasmodic nerves twitch you into geriatric paralysis. Hoping and praying for a controlled suicide bomber with a penchant for pale, gipping, paraplegics.

But that won't happen, transport will never be sparse and considerate, well not in this country there's probably in a good hundred countries that’ll stab a man before they’d endure his bum-bounty. If only we had reasonably priced cutlery.

Stuff

It’s not just people, it’s everything. I don’t need a 1,000 channeled, HD 3D, web contented catch up, mobile accessed, coloured buttoned interactive, digital extravaganza! The Internet is now rammed with rams and gigs of stupid people babbling about other more famous stupid people. It’s fisted through your letter slit, overflowing pockets, spamming up inboxes, while the rest whores it out on the streets in flashy shiny, holographic, ultra visual snot-tosh.

Honey I shrank my eyes

1 in 80 days I wish I were able to be the mouse that eats my own brand frosted flakes at the bottom so they slowly go down without me knowing until two weeks later you realise that you’ve been sharing breakfast with something that considers poison a food.

That space in-between the slightly too large bra and the boob, the gaping hole in a fruit fly’s brain. Little pockets of unnoticed air that floats through, into around and off without a blink of acknowledgement from anything. To be that tiny, you’re tall, beyond all because you don’t have to care, you are the unnamed.

What is space?

About time you’d think. Considering everything is made up of atoms throughout the whole universe there isn't space, space is illusionary, delusionary, a mirage to the senses. Suffocation therefore must be the constant, life next to life, life in life surrounding life, making up larger life. Way to spoil space, space.

Death

Does it offer ultimate space? It could. The blankness of nothingness forever without needs, neither contemplative nor any other. Not fire and brimstone, successive virgins, or a bleach headed grunge band from the nineties. Proper death, rot, absorption, separating into many million, billion parts until space is all around you because you’re not you, like those people who combust, BooM! Now that’s base.