As I wander derelict streets with a
permanent expression of bemusement
on my face, I am almost swamped... drowned... by
a tidal wave of nostalgia. It is
pathetic. A NEW New Age, in which the
doomed millions all hold their breaths. They used
to call me the Jean Paul Sartre of pop world.
Even sparrows cease their unmelodic
chorus. In a small alleyway off High
Holborn, I encounter a renegade
Rock Star. It seems strange to be thinking of
sex at a moment like this. Music
blares. The Rock Star is accompanied by
two hirsute quasi-humans. I ask him if
they have the will to survive. They are Gene
Rebels. I close my eyes and finger the
jar of Vaseline in my coat pocket.
It is so sad. He tells me they are bred
to outlive the coming cataclysm.
The clocks all show different times. The Gene
Rebels are but slightly discomfited
by prospects of sudden devastation.
They hold a conversation concerning
characters and events of which I have
never heard. An awful silence. (Doomed to
live in the ruins of an abandoned
city... Whimpering... the Gene Rebels move
closer together... Crystal eyes blank with
incomprehension...) As I expect, their hair
is bright pink. The clocks stop. But I am still
judging them within an obsolete frame
of reference. The Rock Star famously
has been prosecuted many times for
acts of gross public indecency, but
only to assure himself of future
audiences. In the pose of a self
confessed tri-sexual - claiming, “I'll try
anything once” - he is reported to
make extravagant use of a whip. His
hair is jet black. His name is not the same
as mine. I think I have always loved him.
When the moment arrives, it will be as
physically overwhelming as an
orgasm. Humanity has diverged
rather than progressed. There has been no sign
of further advance since the advent of
Homo Sapiens. Adam and Eve – with
no sense of identity. Perhaps... I
wonder what they will tell their children, when
obsolete B52 bombers drop
their unclear payloads. Their eyes are lambent
and multi-faceted, like diamonds.
Once, the Rock Star seduced a girl from the
audience and made love to her on stage.
I shrug and consider the next small step
sideways in human evolution, as
I hum a line from one of his old hits:
'Our Opinions Are Defunct.' This is
not a time to change my mind. I keep my
thoughts on a tight leash. * THE EVOLUTION *
Light. The sun turns colours I have never
seen before. A new start. London becomes
incomprehensible, beneath skies blown...
psychedelic... The Rock Star holds my hand,
ready for the Bigger Bang. I wonder
how we ever became involved. He dubs
the quasi-humans 'Urbane Gorillas.'
I notice that the Rock Star resembles
a demented version of myself. I
smile. Concussion. Heat. Evolution / pop
music? A familiar, wasted smile.
