In 2016 Diat played at Roskilde, contractually they needed to play for an hour or they wouldn’t get paid, but they didn’t have enough songs, so at one point I just said this for a while.
Do you ever feel like your standing at the edge of something, queasy from the height, some kind of whirling cosmic scab or a a slow motion car crash of crumbling plaster and advancing wrinkles? I often find myself aroused while queuing with my shopping, fruit and veg and cleaning products falling from my arms as I clumsily reach for them, fingers wrapping around their contours like a lover you can never really get a grip on.
There is something kinky in the way my purchases are scraped across the black rubber of the conveyor belt, a flattened whip, validated by friction and sweaty palms, the packaging glistening with condensation, sweat, bulging with trapped air, handled and anointed by the minimum wage incarnation of that ancient female trinity: The maiden, the mother, the crone.
I get excited by empty roads and the sweet stink of hot tarmac, fuck the herald and hark the urban curves, I watch as new apartment blocks are raised from the ground like great ocean liners dragged ashore drifting in static towards the horizon.
It’s midnight as I cycle past the parliament building and watch someone taking a piss on a monument to the dead of one or another of those so called ‘great’ wars. Somewhere in the heavens a man loses his grip and hurtles towards the recently cleaned pavement, shattering into a thousand pieces, an african snowdrop, another gambler who just lost and landed in the lap of the titanic ink barons, crotches stiffen as spines snap.
No one ever talks about the role of the dead play in modern economics, like they’ve never seen a limb caught in a moment of terrible mistake and go crack, snap, leverage is a force to be reckoned with. You grew up at the arse end of a ratchet.
Parents need someone to point at an go, looks kids thats why daddy comes home looking pissed off and half cut everyday, it’s that or the morgue or the street corner or the bench outside the public toilets. Maybe you get lost and find yourself back at the the checkout, some kind of tinned protein and some kind of liquid oblivion, your life is one long misunderstood conversation between you and the universe, one long headache – the kind you get from starting drinking too early in the malicious midday sun.
But this is it, the final dance, two minutes to midnight as meaningful or meaningless as you want it to be, your eyes are remote controls, mutation is a matter of tilting your head. There has been a school shooting on mount olympus, there has been another bombing in the middle east, there has been another rotation of pumping fists and aching balls. There has been another day and there will be another.
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