Writing: Twenty-Four Hour Delirium Rhythm (Prose)
by Beauchamp Art
Green jackets, pale horses and pale faces, raining down bloody fists in silent red, awash with the noise of terror and disorder, in fear of control and order. Truncheons like Roman gladii, cavalry charges trampling the peasant masses.
What spectacle, the plebs collapse into one another in the grand Colosseum of the screen, the great entertainment of the age is the Peoples’ struggle, always at a safe distance of behind the black mirrors of televisions and monitors. Violence ply ascertains reality when it is useful, otherwise is designated prime time high definition sporting action, to be filmed at dramatic angles, so the bewildered herd runs in mad animal circles, demanding no new order, nor disorder, just the revolution of banality, and the comfort of a padded three-piece sofa and plasma screen mediator.
You fill the television Tube with eruptions of cathode ray guns blaring hate speed and chaotic delirium, banging the war drum to no rhythm. The mob is inhuman images, roaming zombie like in apathy. The viewer stewing in self-loathing, the disgraceful Other throws rubble through windows, and the tables of the market sellers are overturned as the money lenders slink away through the cracks in the walls broken by the turmoil they began.
A good person, the active consumer, the Last Man, rolls up his newspaper and beats his dog that paws at the paintwork on the bolted door. The beast will sit and eat and defecate when it is convenient, its needs are secondary to a schedule of programs. It can wait until the advert breaks, or it can piss in its bed and lie in it. He flicks through channels whilst scrolling through social media, fingers primed at the microwave meal wrapped in recyclable plastic, the bitter smell of an equine delicacy. He cannot walk the dog, agoraphobia is a necessary paranoia, outside is terror, the car providing a metal blockade against the threat of unfiltered air, with its digital radio tuned to all signals at once.
Pop music blares across news reports whilst symphonies of distraction echo the banal talk show panel discussion on the importance of remaining focused the road ahead and to not stare at signs of decay and decadence set side by side in the rushing streets.
The grand lobbies of reclining chairs and complimentary canopies gives way to the service entrance, the side door through which those who occupy the ground floors make their way in and out. Out of sight and out of mind as the sink into the concrete. The embers of yesterday’s street war form shadows to a forgettable history, and un-optimistic and therefore undesirable past to be overlooked rather than amended.
Sirens wail, and people bleat, horses neigh and gallop, patrolling the street. Batons ready, and heads held high, boots are polished, for the end is nigh.
Neon green golems with blackened helmets and glossy eyes assess the wandering tribes for insolence and the unsteady rhythm of feet walking out of line. Men with dogs and children leashed on safety harnesses meander malignantly at an unsavoury pace as the crowd explode past, devouring the pavement, heavy with the bruises of a hundred boots, crimson tinged in a muffled sunlight, devoid of luminous expectations, in the sunken ruddy hue of a haze of semi-breathable air.
Cold stones ascend skyward, light glares from polished ivory towers, as the sea of people flows underneath the glass ceilings with the relentlessness of liquid sewage trapped in the relentless pull of gravity, never finding its grounding. The floor chatters with teeth void of their owners, rolling uneasily between the tumultuous footfalls, before crumbling into dust, to be swept up by faceless street sweepers, who too radiate pungent green.