"Out of that awareness comes dissent. Out of dissent comes the instrument for change" - ib
Tabernacles infesting road and favela like so many abandoned shoeshine boxes. Havens for the unclean.
The gatherings are seemingly impromptu and generally involve some token sacrifice.
The aboriginals are drawn to echoes of the Eucharist. Even as they inject unadulterated quantities of RIAA approved filth directly into their brains and set about consuming themselves. Siphoning all that which can be salvaged between one airdrop and the next.
The especially wasted, the ones most eaten by desire, simply fall prone to the turf and writhe there still connected to their media players. In the rain. The sleet... Blindly willing the effluent to pour down on them from out of the rectums of government drones.
Many times I have planted a steel toe-capped boot in a creeping stain only to step on a bracelet of teeth. A gris-gris gumbo of battery acid and undigested parts.
We came upon a Wurlitzer standing in the pulpit of a church. A jukebox, not an organ. The gospel frozen on the spindle behind stained glass. Seven archangels pinned like butterflies.It must have involved a tremendous degree of determination. Just to drag it in there.
The generator lay half buried under a litter of printed hymn sheets. Psalms.
We did not much feel like tarrying there. Once it was established the juice was spoiled. There was something about those blank rows of pews - the dust, the absence carved in wood - that made one immensely wary. Afraid for those pockets of resistance within oneself. Sometimes it is better to turn one's back.
Sometimes it is better to move with the dub.
Where the copper wire which strung me together sang feet above those twisted shrunken remains I could no longer assume I was safely earthed. The vibrations travelled through less vital organs than heart or spleen and concentrated somewhere in my belly. Nesting there. Stitched full of appetites.
We were on the seaboard. Closer to the coast than we had been in weeks.
I seem to recall there were boats once. Yachts. Idling at the jetty.
The memory of it is sentimental. Where the Brotherhood is not.
Sun ripened runners in pea coat, its longer Afghan cousin, toggled against the stiff salt breeze. Before the voodoo stench. A tangle of cockles. Whelks. Nets laid out on the pier for mending. Dogs snuffling between children's feet. When children were still children.
Not those diminutive high priests courted by the Ministry.Dogs, one must take pains to avoid.
Like addled pygmies they travel in packs, but they are grown feral and have no fear of man. The aboriginals, of course, exhibit no alarm either. Even as they are overrun. I have seen them half-dismembered, disemboweled, ribs snapped open like an ivory toast rack, bratwurst ticker tape spooling.
And to the end that vacuous Halloween lantern grin of the junkie. Chiseled in sinew and bone.
Young Team Pygmy Death Squad.
An arm floating up like a doll's.
The dub, it must be understood, is neither directed as a means to pacify nor agitate. Where the Ministry for the Central Transmitter seeks merely to control, The Brotherhood of Dub moves at great lengths to nurture awareness. Out of that awareness comes dissent. Out of dissent comes the instrument for change.
We zipped up only that which was essential and left the Host intact in its spangled box. A vestige of more simple times. Only the reel is key now. The dub. The drones seldom hover this close to the edge of the page. We bookmark it regardless. The CT can go fuck itself. There is no truce, no pretense, no token religious observance. There is nothing save conflict. Division. Bad blood.