Once upon a time there was a women who had everything, all the money in the world, all the powers that god could gift a soul were poured down from heaven or vented up from hell in a malaise of charisma, an articulate eloquence and forcefulness which aspired to the optimisation of perfection encapsulated in the concentration of the moment of breathing in and out and somehow being unaware of this exact instant

One day she was crying her eyes out on the train to come home to her perfect children and her perfect husband who lived in her perfect house to have here dinner prepared by some selfless loving chef and yet she wailed and mashed her potatoes and cried behind her mask for some emotional content other than respectfulness and loving politeness and adoration. Screaming for a strong bloody drink and an argument

A dashing stranger dematerialised before her eyes like a mirage in the desert, an illusion of water - an oasis of calm shimmering in the deathly midday heat, at the atomic level globules of dust were combusting and exploding like distant start in the galaxies colliding at the sub-atomic level to create the fiction of time evolving and fate constricting the choices clustered around the gravitational point, ravaging, satiated, starving - an endless list of unsatisfied adjectives. A constant stream of beautiful swear words and coarse expletives filling the air like a choir of angels summoned from the deeps of the rainwater  that washes into drains and it soaked up in the sewer walls like the excretions of the rotting flesh that we burn and eat to give sustenance to the living dream which is our emotional choice - some edge upon the incandescence of perception.

A hundred and fifty miles an hour at a hundred thousand feet in the sky rupturing the thin skin at the top of the earth, racing in the silver blue at the edge of space - supersonic acceleration a missile pointlessly circling towards its final destination somewhere in the future. Their hair swept back by the wind, the landscape sweeping by in a blur, not a care in the world. On such thoughts is the world primed upon a set of weights within the human mind, to sense a moment of importance in a timeline of futility, some small joy to enlighten all the dark and all the confusion. To know that communication and connection are impossibilities, and that every conversation is a fallback to safe ground, to convention, to the same repeated rituals. This experience, this fantasy is the synthesis of some pure emotion, like joy, or love, or profundity is extinguished by reality and inability, reticence, regret and victory.

Somewhere in the deep forest it is morning as Peter awakes from his slumber, the frost covers the ground, and steam forms with his every breath. Another morning to awake in a ditch, a fox hole dug by his own hands. He thanks god a mortar has not taken him in sleep, and curses that very same god that he has awoken again in this forsaken place. All the world cast assunder for this meagre piece of earth, this wasteland. In quiet moments with his comrades he dreams over steaming tins of soup of the summertimes to come with his family in the park with the sun high in the sky soaking his skin in the warmth of companionship, and like the olden times he would welcome his Russian brothers to join them for a picnic of Sausage and Vodka. What a waste for the world to be caught in a war between Oligarchs and Capitalists, a better word for both is Criminals. In a golden age all would set down there arms upon the ground and know that there was no difference between Russians and Ukranians except the lies peddled by the manipulators in the broadcasting towers. The tragic trajectory of burning shrapnel expanding outwards like a flower blooming or a raindrop exploding, a torrent of blood gushing through his veins to heat his cold hands and cold feet as he extricates them from his blanket

In a place abstracted from the world, hidden beneath the surface is a great commotion in the numbers and measures of the market, yet this great land stays still, and grim faced people caught in the fly-wheel of the world engorge upon the ephemeral in order to entertain themselves and escape from the boredom, the tiredness and the banality of it all. In a fleeting moment of joy and escape until the next morning to awake in a serotonin deprived prison of misery, expectation and inadequacy. To join in the ritual sanctification of objects, and the small victories of status, the infinite joys of the melodious silence, or the shrill shrieking of another incoming volley in the top corner. And the goalkeeper stretches out his arm and points towards the stars, and then his eyes follow and he tips the ball on to the bar - collapsing on to the ground for a moment unaware and out of control of his body, and the striker sneaks in to boot the ball into the bulging net, and a billion people watch, some jump for joy, or sigh in boredom, and all the screens shatter, and all the mirrors crack, and forlorn the superstructure of status is torn down and revealed as cheap curtain around the altar of existence

She came to him in the night, it gave him quite an exceptional fright, soaked to the bone, shivering staring at his phone sheltering under a burned out car wreck filled with mangled limbs and dead cats and dogs smelling to high heaven of purification and glorification of the psychotic dream like a throbbing drum buzzing like a horde of flies feasting on the rotting globules of putrescence and pathetic, crying, helpless, reaching out for help in the expectation that you will turn away and turn your cheek away and walk onwards in your empathetic boils breaking out all over your back, and bursting, green and yellow plasma splurging out and coating the pavement like glorious drunken, drug induced vomit, and straighten yourself out to stand up and try and dance but you are too self conscious even though no-one is watching, except you are watching yourself in your mind's eyes and like a shark you don't want to show yourself subconsciously apart from the herd - you just don't get it, go and get it, where> It's not here, you just don't get it.

She was the baddest of them all, the darling of the ball, the multitudes sent out the call to all the people. She saw you watching her, and she thought what a sick fuck, what a sick mind to even look, what a sick thought to display some emotional content, the only thing I want is resentment and power. I don't need your weak desire, why do you desire me? What am I but a weakness and unfulfilling connection, turn out the lights, out of my sight, away from me, into the darkness and the smoke, revelling in everything that is fake and surface and unknowable, far from here in a speeding car at midnight, the traffic lights trailing as he lies face upwards on the seat his face as white as a sheet, a dark brown ghost living the most, faster than all the time in the world, slower than the time that follow in a serotonin deprived dawn of skin and bone and lifeless Bricks of a heartless city

The word was with him, he could feel it in his every breath, every time he closed his eyes he could see it - an ornate machine, or a flaming eye, a spirit in the wind, gusting behind him on the path. All about was the frosted air of a pale blue morning as eyes looked out into the distance to the sea shimmering and sparkling in the distance, and all about him were the colours of autumn, the bronzed dying beautiful leaves clinging on and waiting for the wind to dislodge them and blow them upon the tides, endlessly swirling in the wind, or stacked and swept and put in a recycling bin. A pale and freezing sunlight, pure air in our lungs, away from the smog and the invisible smoke of cars, the humming of static from the screens and wires, just the wind voluminously sighing and disturbing the strong branches of tree to sway and readjust thoughtlessly over and over again like the waves and the tides upon the shore, and if you can bear it for more than a moment to take yourself away from your thoughts, dreams and despair and listen to yourself breath in and out for a few minutes, to observe yourself like you are a thing to behold

Sometimes it is glorious to behold the city in the morning light, to understand a billion mouths take breath, a billion hearts beat almost in unison and it signifies nothing. If some movement, or thought of man would blight these like some spirit of old to heal the earth of this avarice would one come afterwards to judge this action according to the ancient laws. Deep within the ancient consciousness electrons, protons and quarks are unhinged and de-anchored from their foundations and into the world of a collective perception leaks the reality of our dimensional understanding. In the half light the full moon rises over the sea across a flat beach, and it's absolutely freezing, so we throw on a scarf and a warm jumper and a jacket, and walk out to feel the icy wind upon our cheeks, and the dog runs into the sea like it is descended from Seals because it is impervious to the cold. Away from the static and the fog into the clarity of the half-night, promenading along the beach the freezing air cooling our hot brows. High above in the sky small twinkling stars drowned out from the timeless sky by the pale orange light of our human endeavour and gloom.

The President woke up in the morning and didn't realise where he was, he look down at his feet and all around the room and for the life of him he couldn't quite remember how he had got there, he could remember his name, his job, or at least what his job was in 1990. Nevertheless it was a nice room, a big room with a huge king sized bed. His wife was still asleep, he always did like to wake up early. He decided to walk through to the kitchen to try and make himself some breakfast, or at least get some coffee. Freshly brewed coffee in the morning was fine, it was his favourite thing, then to read the newspapers. He puts on his slippers and pedals through the door but annoyingly enough it's not a kitchen it's just another room, like a lounge, he thinks to himself whose idea was it put a lounge upstairs like this, and where were the stairs. He couldn't make the darnest sense of any of it. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he looked about 20 years older, reminded of that song he had liked in 1950, so he started to sing it, he could almost imagine himself at that bar all those years ago, drinking whiskey with his buddies and singing those good all songs. Those were the days and why not sing it now. And who were these people rushing in left right and centre and grabbing hold of him - "Get off me, I say". "Mr President come with us, back to your living quarters, we will get you dressed now". "What about breakfast?"

He was the greatest rapper in history, sitting on the edge of his bed in his silk pyjamas, three ladies who provide for the desire of the flesh rather than the wholeness of the heart were splayed over the bed, tired out and exhausted because they were so excited to be here in the presence of so much money, so much status. He walked over to his cupboard and tried to decide which pair of sneakers to wear today, there were over a thousand pairs in the walk in cupboard, and a voice in his head said today perhaps you can walk in bear feet, walk in bear feet my ass!. These sneakers had been hand made in Italy by the finest tailors and craftsmen in the whole of Europe, if he sold them they would worth over a million dollars. What did he want to do this morning? And the voice in his head said phone your daughter and take a walk along the beach, or up into the hills, the hills my ass!. So he took out his crack pipe and took a hit and fuck this shit he felt like a god, even if it were only for a little bit, her name was Elizabeth - like the queen of England. This mangled royal ego must forgo charity, clarity of thought, all the luxuries he has bought, the world-wide attention he has caught. Everything he has sought, only to be shot down out of the sky for being too sly. Only his mommy would cry if she hadn't passed because he was too crass, like a dynamite blast, or breaking his fast by making a huge cast of his cock and putting it on a plinth outside of the White House

Donald Trump was sitting on the toilet trying to do a dump, there were a pile of cheeseburgers on a tray at his feet, and three cartons of Diet Coke, he was watching Fox News on the TV. He was thinking to himself, do you believe that shit? Is anyone even able to say what they fucking mean these days? Do we all need to hide behind what people think we have to say? What was freedom of speech if all we fucking ever did is stick to the fucking anodyne? He had been on the toilet for about 3 hours now. He picked up his phone and called through, more fucking hamburgers please

And in another instant there was an idiot who didn't have very much and froze like a deer in the hunters shotgun sight and forgot how to walk and how to talk whenever someone interesting walked by. However, inside of him lived a wayward spirit like Mr Hyde who loved chaos and destruction above all else and wanted to throw everything away just to see what happens and unleash the spirits from Mount Parnassus to heal the world and solve all the ills that were about to befall all of us dearly beloved unless, undressed some withered disgusting flesh, fading into dust, dreaming of murder, bought himself a gun and went for a walk to shoot a man down just to watch him die - sigh and moisture dissipated like steam to flow ever upwards like steam to form clouds and fall like rain upon mine cheeks as I moon the sky.

Is ought more beautiful than imperfection, is a whole in your head more fulfilling than examining the sediment in the earth as it mingles with the blood and flesh, he stretches out his hand and takes some spirit and runs away with no thought and endless recrimination, and all about speak of damnation and this special kind of reprobate cannot even masturbate because of his smelly, shiny fixation on that which glitters in the moonlight 

And at last she realises he is but rotten flesh and his heart loves only chaos and destruction but then she is free from, and her secret lover announces herself and together they escape from the prison of money, and the prison of peoples expectations and from this small change flows the chaos that will heal the world because this should has been poured down from heaven and lifted up from the vents of hell