Pressing no. 50

Alexandra Palace Fireworks, 2008

Answerphone Message: 5/11

“Look at this shit! Trees collapse beside the pile of burning tyres while Amy Johnson – Dead Aviatrix – staggers about swigging from a bottle of Scotch. She’s laughing. I told her she was beautiful and she coughed fuel onto the fire. There are twelve of us at the peak of St Catherine’s Hill, waiting for someone to light the first fuse. Our rebellion failed, and The Nu-Rave Vagrant led us from the city along a dormant railway track to get clear of the mobs. God knows what the papers said. Christie is starting to look sickly, but chats happily with the idea of a twee revival. It’s clear this is a celebration of something, but of what I’m not sure. Britain is brown, for the winter, and in the suburbs there’s a bun fight over what might mean more: The gun or the grenade. My subconscious is running riot. Against all odds I’m still awake. It took so long to get here, and we’re all very tired, but somehow it feels like sleep might be too dangerous. I’m cavorting with ghosts Matt, so just think what might be waiting for me behind my eyelids.

Call me back…”

© Matthew Sheret, 2008


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