ON THE BRINK IS AN OPENING GAMBIT, AN ONGOING NOVEL IN PROGRESS STEMMING FROM POSTCARDS FROM MENTAL STATES, AI, TRAVEL, DISLOCATION, CHAOS, HYPERFOCUS, DISASSOCIATION, RE-ASSOCIATION, MEMORY LAPSE(S) & ADAM CURTIS FILMS
An excerpt from On The Brink was published in Issue 3 of Underground Overground
(excerpt)
It’s Saturday again in Venezuela. Police train to be minesweepers in the Kherson region and possibly Northern Ireland. Point-blank. The ticker tape repeats in capital letters for one hour straight. The world’s longest alleyway. A baguette pirouettes out of sight in the gale. I withdraw. Sackfuls of beets stuffed in the crevices. The community became a conduit for Clive Bell’s militant uprising talkshow. Quaker imagery projected onto the night shelters and sleeping pods along the canal. Ham hock present in the afterlife. An undersize dartboard provokes some traction. Bitumen scarcity. Candles blown out. Leakage. Dredging the lake at nightfall. Scissor movement. Frank Bough’s grandson studies canine manners between trips to Mogadishu. Dog walkers shovelling each other. Your jaw is attached to something else. Pampas grass ablaze in the factory loading-bay. They’ve been clapping nigh on fifty minutes. Real choice. Beards shaped here. Duffel bags of shifting sands left in the alleyway. Flax injected into fish. Falafel rings. Temperature denied. Anxiety gnawing in the cheeks and ankles of politicians. It does matter. Wrestling on the back seat. The Beard and The Sister are desperate. Screenwipe to Junction 39. Mutilated action men. Diesel stains down my trousers. Police-on-a- stick. A billboard showing a naked Peter Tork in a smoking jacket, strolling nonchalantly towards reception. Sun glasses hiding a cornucopia of issues. Naturally, after supper, sharing tea-lights and K with Putin’s driver. Vanity justice. They order injections for their delight only. Alvin Stardust demands respect on cult talkshow. Glove-up. Wipe to ripening avocado’s on a TV somewhere within walking distance from Taksim Square and Istiklal Street. Flamethrowers then mint tea. The neglected render captivates Sam. Farouk is unclassifiable. Distribution in the Mardi Gras. Umbrella’s. Shane brings a tear. The Dealer is never on holiday. MARKETING ONLY. Boot Jump Kits. Royalties siphoned. The Beard wears a double-faced Melton. You leave early. The Beard staggers back to The Sisters room on the 14th floor. Blood-orange in the bathroom. There’s no timeserver to read signatures at Gatwick. And OTHER REGIONAL AIRPORTS. Assorted passports squashed and rotting. Hotpot served. I cause overflowing the ante room. A tip pushed into Sam’s armband. Beautiful risotto dropping out of the skies over Toronto. Seeking the electric skinny with The Sister. Thick, hot plumes of ever-increasing bluebottles circle the barbecue. We get dressed. The Beard scrunches the Chinese papers. Serving hatch pulse. Ampoules taste of oregano. The Dealer acting-out with stale eyes. An out-of-turban radiologist playing loudly. Liar. Added creme. Really. Sam dresses the acupuncturist to assist the neural debate. Solvent rationing at the Hearse Wash. Thank you. Daily drizzle. The check-in experience leaves a sweet and sour taste. Forever tightening ringlets of drizzle in the supervisors porta-cabin. The Beard is not wrong. The armoured troop-carrier packed with babies. Bottlenecks in The Producers armoury. Carafes steadily dropping from Level 9. Ticket machine spraying vomit. Punctured lunges in the academy disturbance. Manhattan. Scriptures involved in a sickening white-spiritual. The Sister has a ticket. Warm beer on the runway.THE DEALER IS RIGHT. Parquet floors form centrepiece in commuter experience. Dull. Marketing daydreams in the town square. Hedge-funded. The Sister speaks slowly into the contradictions. Off her face. Linton worms the Zebra’s. The art of withdrawal. Leeching leads to hospitalisation for most. Pre-ambulant. Smoke screens booked for the communal garden. A low-slung hieroglyph is civil as well as mindful for neighbours. The office. Tibetan arms dealers injecting amphetamines in the restroom. Bench-pressing. The Dealer in dark humour. Water cannon. Bathtubs heaving with pork gelatine and predator-ordnance. Cart. Sam is still sorry for Cobey’s lot. Joe Kennedy spends the afternoon coked-up, texting clientele. Toasting at an ideology-fling in South Mimms. Airship beyond reincarnation. Oceanic beavers. The17 chew on frankfurters. The17 adjust their backpacks and alliances. They favour the mattock. Lacquering the patio every sundown in moab, utah. legless. The master tapes were sent via Switzerland. Couriers. Spanish fly.
It’s Saturday again in Venezuela. Police train to be minesweepers in the Kherson region and possibly Northern Ireland. Point-blank. The ticker tape repeats in capital letters for one hour straight. The world’s longest alleyway. A baguette pirouettes out of sight in the gale. I withdraw. Sackfuls of beets stuffed in the crevices. The community became a conduit for Clive Bell’s militant uprising talkshow. Quaker imagery projected onto the night shelters and sleeping pods along the canal. Ham hock present in the afterlife. An undersize dartboard provokes some traction. Bitumen scarcity. Candles blown out. Leakage. Dredging the lake at nightfall. Scissor movement. Frank Bough’s grandson studies canine manners between trips to Mogadishu. Dog walkers shovelling each other. Your jaw is attached to something else. Pampas grass ablaze in the factory loading-bay. They’ve been clapping nigh on fifty minutes. Real choice. Beards shaped here. Duffel bags of shifting sands left in the alleyway. Flax injected into fish. Falafel rings. Temperature denied. Anxiety gnawing in the cheeks and ankles of politicians. It does matter. Wrestling on the back seat. The Beard and The Sister are desperate. Screenwipe to Junction 39. Mutilated action men. Diesel stains down my trousers. Police-on-a- stick. A billboard showing a naked Peter Tork in a smoking jacket, strolling nonchalantly towards reception. Sun glasses hiding a cornucopia of issues. Naturally, after supper, sharing tea-lights and K with Putin’s driver. Vanity justice. They order injections for their delight only. Alvin Stardust demands respect on cult talkshow. Glove-up. Wipe to ripening avocado’s on a TV somewhere within walking distance from Taksim Square and Istiklal Street. Flamethrowers then mint tea. The neglected render captivates Sam. Farouk is unclassifiable. Distribution in the Mardi Gras. Umbrella’s. Shane brings a tear. The Dealer is never on holiday. MARKETING ONLY. Boot Jump Kits. Royalties siphoned. The Beard wears a double-faced Melton. You leave early. The Beard staggers back to The Sisters room on the 14th floor. Blood-orange in the bathroom. There’s no timeserver to read signatures at Gatwick. And OTHER REGIONAL AIRPORTS. Assorted passports squashed and rotting. Hotpot served. I cause overflowing the ante room. A tip pushed into Sam’s armband. Beautiful risotto dropping out of the skies over Toronto. Seeking the electric skinny with The Sister. Thick, hot plumes of ever-increasing bluebottles circle the barbecue. We get dressed. The Beard scrunches the Chinese papers. Serving hatch pulse. Ampoules taste of oregano. The Dealer acting-out with stale eyes. An out-of-turban radiologist playing loudly. Liar. Added creme. Really. Sam dresses the acupuncturist to assist the neural debate. Solvent rationing at the Hearse Wash. Thank you. Daily drizzle. The check-in experience leaves a sweet and sour taste. Forever tightening ringlets of drizzle in the supervisors porta-cabin. The Beard is not wrong. The armoured troop-carrier packed with babies. Bottlenecks in The Producers armoury. Carafes steadily dropping from Level 9. Ticket machine spraying vomit. Punctured lunges in the academy disturbance. Manhattan. Scriptures involved in a sickening white-spiritual. The Sister has a ticket. Warm beer on the runway.THE DEALER IS RIGHT. Parquet floors form centrepiece in commuter experience. Dull. Marketing daydreams in the town square. Hedge-funded. The Sister speaks slowly into the contradictions. Off her face. Linton worms the Zebra’s. The art of withdrawal. Leeching leads to hospitalisation for most. Pre-ambulant. Smoke screens booked for the communal garden. A low-slung hieroglyph is civil as well as mindful for neighbours. The office. Tibetan arms dealers injecting amphetamines in the restroom. Bench-pressing. The Dealer in dark humour. Water cannon. Bathtubs heaving with pork gelatine and predator-ordnance. Cart. Sam is still sorry for Cobey’s lot. Joe Kennedy spends the afternoon coked-up, texting clientele. Toasting at an ideology-fling in South Mimms. Airship beyond reincarnation. Oceanic beavers. The17 chew on frankfurters. The17 adjust their backpacks and alliances. They favour the mattock. Lacquering the patio every sundown in moab, utah. legless. The master tapes were sent via Switzerland. Couriers. Spanish fly.
