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At some point in 1992 I telephoned Channel 4 to offer them my proposal.

“It’ll need a helicopter. A Steadicam guy. Back-up in a Jeep.”

It was late at night after a trying evening, so I left the pitch on their answering machine.

I slept until noon the following day…


“Albert Eugene Babendreier. Maryland. Can’t be many of those.”

“What a name. Why? D’you know him?”

My partner didn’t bother to look at the international news story which had caused me to stop scrolling. I read further in silence. …


God in the bin, of broken things. Leftover clay. Fossil paper towels crushed into grey flowers, grey failure. Cuts and remnants. For you I have loose pigment in a dustpan, which I knock into your belly with the small side of a brush. Watch it settle for a second, blowing…


My father once met a man whom he used to help with homework. Who had inherited a paper mill. And my father asked him, in the course of their conversation, near a shopping centre car park — why?

Why he not only employed east Europeans but actively flew to these…


“The boy brings me oxygen. He’s the oxygen boy. Unskilled, not caring. Not a medical professional, so he needn’t even pretend that he cares. He’s exonerated, just a driver in modern overalls, who whistles as he scoops up the latest pale grey tank from the rear of his van, and…


I remember broken motion sensor taps on a rocking ferry. Packs of boys with clipped Germanic haircuts stirring into the café, slapping walls and spinning chairs. Passing though women in perfect team uniforms. Blues and reds, blacks. …


What do we do with him now? Beyond us, the snow begins to fare in mixed dances across the windscreen and, up front, they seem to want an eight-year-old abortion. They never use those terms, of course. They pause and inhale (it’s the nerves talking) to elongate phrases like ‘take…


No to dirty energy. Yes to renewables. Climate jobs now. Justice for people. A superficial run around the Anarchist Bookfair, its gender-neutral toilets having migrated to CSM, King’s Cross. Civilised behaviour begins on the can. I didn’t go to any lectures, heavy after a week of insomnia (a vague Gestalt…


There is no heterosexual sex culture. Welcomed, win-win, not monetised and fun. The BDSM scene has a greater active participancy than any ‘normal’ casual sex scene. It would be easier for me to find someone to hurt tonight than hug.

The clouds above the Wellcome Building didn’t dispel by the…

Sixtine

Post-ghost. Medium.

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