"I wanna PC-Bang with you"

I am currently writing this in a PC Bang, meaning "room", but I prefer Bang. There's loads of them, usually at the top floors of buildings, fittingly distanced from the social hubbub of the streets below. It's the first thing I have done since I got into central Seoul. Not look for restaurants, shop for Deoderants, or meet people. I need none of those social conveniences where I am; in the corner of a silvery mirrored room of the future in a huge metropolis that I have yet to explore. No need to. This here screen is my friend, and only it can give me the answers.

However I will probably socialise in a bit,....I suppose. But I think this is what Seoul wants of me right now. I'm doing what all the kids are up to! Playing games, going on facebook, and other shit. Although I don't have a super fantastic phone yet, that has a pointless keychain hanging off it and blasts ridiculous Korean pop songs. Not too far from back home then, only its stupid Hip-Hop songs (Hip-Pop I like to call its, coz its not really Hip-Hop, it's crap).

Getting into town was a bit of a mission. I had to get to my nearest tube, not far from my flat, and standing in front of the tube map for quite some time I realised I ought to procure one for myself. So searching for ages in my Korean guide for the word "map" I discovered to my annoyance that the Korean word for "map" was.... "map". Unnecessary. Then I had to actually buy a bloody ticket, another trip to the unknown. Standing in front of the ticket machine I stood gormlessly around, pissing off other commuters, until someone kindly helped me with getting a return ticket. Very kind of them. Didn't need to though. There was an English option.

The train is very wide, wide enough for you too have a stroll about, which I did. Then I realised that sitting down and not drawing attention to yourself was the best bet. The relentlessness of advertising here is interesting. Even going through the tunnels at high speed, you are shown adverts. Somehow there is a consequential system of screens that flickers at such a rate that as you are passing you are still just being shown the same advertisement poster, and not just that! It fucking MOVES! I don't know. I just don't. And I suppose there's gonna be a lot more things that will hurt my head, nonstop, like a sexually aggressive dog that just won't let go.

FAT LADY

Holding court to listless eyes
That widens with her girth

“The duck was cooked slowly, sir”

Rejecting words that still finds voice.
Mirth, it shrinks.

“As good as Nilsson’s Salome?”

Flustered suits try the chair
It will not move

“Don’t tear the seam of a seamless performance!”

And so she laughs,
As only her form finds

“It will be alright”

That her wasted ways, still reveals
A connection.

STRONG MAN

Happy to help. Loving the meal.
Only to know it’s past

“It was better back in the days”

Reflecting upon such easy
Ways to eat, fill up.

“The orange jelly lacks zest”

Take time rich man
Fatted wallet man.

“Recession is always exacerbated by memory”

Purge the ideal, to make more
And store love;

“It’s always a good time to save”

Giving it socially, to expand
A braided band of workers.

TIRED EMPLOYEE

Who hears the story of
The fat soprano singer

“Why did I mention cheese and carrot sandwiches?”

Looking away at the passing train
Fuelling ways to move

“The economy, perhaps?”

Obedience fixes him to
The chair this time

“Move back slightly, please”

Grinning effortlessly at story
That the boss retells

“The train tells me something”

Sadly of the soprano singer
Stuck to the seat

Of Any Consequence?

If that’s not the case, then she should be more honest.
But to say she would quit!
Not to understand her apprehension of continuance
This is what she wants people to know.

But my cynicism grew, I knew not where from
Possibly growing.
An adult reaction to my youthful optimism.
Entirely self-aware though.
This is not the gradual change that is missed,
By the untrained eye of a worker.
This is the gradual change of a listless figure
Knowing all that needs to be known, but forcing it down.
To understand the recession.
To figure out the taxes.
To rely on the love of the cared for girl,
That wearies of the uncaring tone.

It is not my fault that I am inconsiderate for
This part of childhood drags on my hand.
“Be carefull, you’ll make me trip!”
Is it not enough that I tire of Christmas.
Do I not try of carry you occasionally?
I make a damned effort in accommodating
The responsibilities.

Most of all the optimism’s gone.
Belief in the good of all that is bad
The pure in the pitiful, the desire to smile.
And when the smile grows thin and used,
By the reinforcement of the choice to choose,
When in truth it’s the happiness of an ignorant bliss
Of a carefree life, still happy and oppressed.

No Skimpole syndrome, this is not the way
But to still rely.
On a time when knowing that you need not know
But rest sleepily on the state’s bosom;
Soft, warm, comforting.
Gives you life. It takes it too.
No choice for me. It clouds the judgement,
Re-aligns your purpose, adding consequential consideration.
All that should remain is a thought of oneself
Let the higher power guide others.

Still today we are free, alas.
To be ourselves?
An individual in the mass. Dress your way,
For I believe someone of similar style approaches
He appears in flat-cap, but goes up
As you go down.
And where has this freedom got me?
I have compromised my life, I fear.
For when I say that a beautiful actress decides to quit,
I say it is because she is ignorant.

When I have to pick from the endless list
I am reduced to an angry adult mess.

An independent mind? For what will that give?
To confuse oneself in a growing throng
Of lies,
Attempts
To make
A truth. The Pravda of a world that knows just false.
So as you live sweet blissful love
With a lover in love, to bleed and give
With the cracked knuckles of a wintry hand,
And the fiery burn of an irritable bowel,
Please know that it will cost you
The essence of that young sweetness
That falters not at bad
But crumbles under growth.

New Year in South London

A wasp’s circular movement on the leather.
Rotating with the clicks and clacks of gambling,
Only to swing with doubt into the New Year.

A look of anger and frustration,
Then the camera is turned off.
A sour mood is left lingering in Woolworths.

“If I catch you filming again, I’ll kick you out!”

I laugh, “But why?”

“Because that’s the rules” says a scarred black face,
Retiring into the mass of jobless shop workers.

Leverkuhn's Ghost

Unrealistic thoughts kept invading her mind. They were ridiculous to contemplate, yet gave her an incomparable sense of elation. This hope that she continually fed and cultivated had a peculiar ebb and flow that carried with them her mood. She enjoyed cherishing fantastical notions of what she was going to do. Her future dream career was to enable her to balance the delicate task of fulfilling the selfish desire everyone has of self elevation. She would rise above all the rest and look down upon others from her lofty seat. From this position she could do good for all those suffering below her. She would be reverred, almost worshipped. And while all this was going on she would maintain a belevolent distance, forcing those that wanted to know her away. Her role in the world would take her to many countries, would create change and reform in governments and people alike, and she would be remembered throughout history. When moments like this arrived, she would thank the particular artist that sparked these thoughts, for these ideas were usually preceded by inspiration from her favourite texts, compositions, or frames.

She didn't believe in love. Or to be precise she believed that love was a thing so rare, that all the examples of it you are presented with in life, was not love. This belief was a practical asset to have in order to achieve all her wild desires. With her refusal of love she believed that she was already of a higher calling. Distractions of this sort was a hindrance. Why would the well educated mind of an objective and formalist woman want to be tainted by the passions of love? But it was not just this. She truly believed that love was not a thing that rarely existed. It was all about companionship and convenience. The union of two people could never be whole or perfect. It is unnatural for a person to tie themselves with the notion that their partner was on the same level as them. How is it possible in a world of over six billion people that the two that should be together, the two that would humble the love between Dido and Aeneus, would ever meet? Very slim. Those that do delude themselves that they are in love with their partner are only exaggerating the idea that they are comfortable and happy together. They enjoy their company and find comfort and solace in the idea that they can share each other hopes, dreams and lives. This in itself is a great and noble thing, but not to be mistaken for love. Would that person sacrifice all their friends and family at the click of a finger? Would that person murder, rape and rob with no qualm at all? Would they give up all the ideals and ambitions that they themselves have held dear all their lives and form the very essence of their being? Of course not, for this is not love. Only when love takes hold can the complete abbandonment of the self begin.

She was with her friends and decided for the time being to give up these thoughts. When her friends addressed her, she didn't respond. It was their eventual annoyance with her frequent day dreams that snapped her out of it.
"Sam! Are you still there?" inquired her tall, slightly hump-backed friend, Rosie. Sam looked away from the grey offices of Victoria Street towards the delicate and beuatiful features of Rosie.
"Sorry", said Sam.
The topic of conversation between the three girls, Sam, Rosie and their other friend, Jen, was of the style that friends have after not seeing each other for quite some time. The subjects changed as quickly as the speaker, as they all jostled for position in discussing events of little importance between them as a whole but of great significance for the individual. News was passed over briefly and analyses darted from quick summations to dismissive laughs. It was all very light and frivolous. They just met minutes ago at Victoria Station and it was not until they walked down Victoria Street and entered a pizzeria that they could settle and recover the subjects of brief discussion earlier for a deeper re-evaluation.

Before they got to the restaurant Sam was caught by the attractive features of a smartly dressed man, walking past them. His one raised eyebrow and slightly parted lips that still maintained the form and function of a pout had the visual presentation of arrogance. This annoyed Sam as she frowned and held the door open for her friends. They were already in, but Sam still stood there. She kept her gaze upon the man, for she now noticed a fascinating resignation exuding from his eyes. The submissive glaze that shone from his eyes was such an intriguing conflict with his arrogant pose and step that she remained there staring. When he passed she also noticed the white bumps of his knuckles as his very tight grip on his umbrella revealed a tension that was most visible in the white/red/white/red/white/red/white of the pulsating blood in his hands.

The Function of an Umbrella

It was one of those ceaselessly rainy days, where the constant downpour gave the grey and wet day an eternal presence. There was no escaping it. When you managed to avoid the rain in a building, the sound seemed to grow louder to compensate. When you managed to escape the sound of rain, there were the hordes of people that were always talking about the rain or shaking their wet coats or umbrellas. "It's non-stop!", "British summer through and through", "Lucky I bought a strong umbrella yesterday". And on it went. Age, sex or race made no difference; everyone partook in the usual phenomenon. Victoria street was a mass of fast, bobbing umbrellas that jostled for dominance. Some rose with power and floated above others. Some managed quick and nimble dives and swerves that managed to avoid contact with other, and some with their sheer size bulldozed their way through the others. Not only did the umbrellas seem to possess a character of themselves, but their size and colour gave clues as to their owners. There were the large black ones with corporate logos on, that were carried by people in suits. These struck a great contrast with the small flimsy ones that boasted various colourful designs, hastily bought by tourists or day-trippers. Most of these umbrellas were crowded around the Parliament Square end of Victoria Street, occasionally venturing down Victoria Street, only to hesitate and turn back as all they saw were grey offices after grey offices.

All this was observed by Simon sitting in a coffee house on Victoria Street. Usually the weather would have affected him, especially the mild depression he experienced on days like this. Today, however, he was too busy with his thoughts to be influenced. He sat sipping his coffee with his hand and chin resting on the crooked handle of his umbrella (a large green one). He enjoyed the novelty of the various poses he could perform with his umbrella. Walking up to the counter to buy his third coffee he tapped his umbrella on the floor, every other step, with an imperial and aloof air. Walking back he tried the nonchalant swing of the umbrella on his hand. He liked them both, for they helped give him a look of purpose, even though at this precise time of his life it was purpose that he was decidedly lacking. It was empty examples of appearances, such as his umbrella, that fuelled his obsession with his image. As a vain man he believed that this peculiarity of his was a habit that not only pleased him, but pleased others too. Believing that his appearance was a pleasure for others, he was allowed to indulge in his arrogance and thoughts of superiority over others. It was a concession that others should make for the effort that he makes, and he truly believed with a steadfast conviction that this was a perfectly fair relationship with the other.

This feeling was never conveyed to anyone. He was a friendly and considerate individual that never acted with superiority and treated everyone with respect. There was always a fued within with this natural respect for others and his snobbery. It was not only his fierce education that propelled his arrogance, but also the devotion and attention he received from friends and family from a young boy up to now. All this cultivated his egocentric outlook to an extent that he felt everyone was comfortable with. But that didn't stop his conflict within. It felt incongruous. All these thoughts that shot through his head were well rehearsed and swiftly assessed, and coming to no conclusion he felt tired, letting the thoughts pass away.

"These thoughts are of no consequence anyway" he whispered to himself. He liked repeating words to himself. The voice he gave to his thoughts reinforced their meaning, bolstering their purpose, as his umbrella bolstered his purpose. "For tonight I'm going to kill myself....Yes, tonight I'm going to kill myself". He left the coffee house in the direction of Victoria train station, gripping his umbrella handle extremely tightly. There was only one way he interpreted the present function of his umbrella. That of preparation of death.

Possibly right?

When you walk down Charing Cross Road from Leicester Square tube station, you come to St. Martin's in the Field. From there turn left and you shall be at the end of St. Martin's Lane. The narrow opening allows only a trickle of traffic to pass through, only to be forced left, away from Trafalgar Square. Congestion builds and engines buzz. When a car attempts an illegal turn right, angry taxes beep their horns behind. Pedestrians also slow the traffic. The arrogance of everyone, tourist or native, enables them to hold the roads as kings. Their right of way across the bottom of St. Martin's causes the occasional bottle-neck, but tensions are never raised. It is an expected way of life in the centre of London, when the crowds must either learn to live with each-other or tear each other apart. Thankfully the former is adopted. The walk down Charing Cross Road is scattered with tour-bus conductors patiently dealing with the tourists eager to mount the bus. If they have children, they cling to them tightly, and sometimes raise them up on their arms and share with them the excitement. They start to board the bus as you walk past them. Ahead a mass of clothes heaped on top of each-other trundles towards you. It takes a second for you to realise that it is the local homeless lady who occasionally patrols these streets. Her old wrinlked face is barely visible from the heap of clothes that covers everything, but leaves only her small hands and face free. She pushes her small trolley past, and as you look down to see her, she looks up. That is all; you walk on. Bearing left you pass the bank and eventually come across the bottled-necked bottom of St. Martin's Lane. Looking up to your left, the imposing brown building of The Coliseum confronts you, boasting the season on English Opera and the visiting Bolshoi Ballet this summer. Craning your neck further back you take in the tall sight of the revolving Coliseum sphere at the very top of the building. The building has a superficial elegance to it. It is a pleasant image of a powerful and respectable building, welcoming onlookers with its diminuitive granduer that seems rather confined inbetween other buildings. Smaller than expected it boasts a large theatre inside, but the onlookers don't know that. They stand outside and take photos mainly. It is only the regular ENO audiences and visiting opera enthusiasts that venture inside. To the Coliseum you don't go. Instead you look down to its right and see a small shop. Its blue door and window frames stand out, and you are drawn to it. You walk across the road, adding ever so gently to the congestion, and stand at the shop's window display. The selection of stock was an intriguing mix of opera and world cinema. You get the idea, but decide to go in anyway.