Pass me the king of medicine?
Yes, hello, I’d like to vanquish illness. Fight me the invincible, age and death.
My sexual organs have been mapped out like machine parts, they can generate predictable feelings if you push certain buttons on the body and work even better if you switch on certain programs on the screen.
I have the ability to control a flow of hormones, knowing this delivers a flash of unadulterated joy. Wow, my very own self embodies modernity. Nowadays, modern woman doesn’t wear clothes any more. She wears cosmetic surgery, perfect skin, silicone labia, and a beautician-enhanced face. The perfect face can show feelings, activated by buttons, sleep and attention controlled by pharmaceutic precision.
Modern woman’s soul floats in eternal painlessness. Here, emotions are geometric, like a decorative garden of mannerist shrubbery. Images of life and dream are frozen into psychedelic arabesques and symbolic florals. Here, women enjoy celluloids of a shaved, emperfumed body that ejects fluids into plastic containers, hooked to sensory stimuli. An eternal present in a perpetually repeating, infinitely multipliable, robo-erotic kiss.
He says, I’m afraid that won’t be possible. For now, it looks like death and age will still come.
He says that some people hanged themselves, or tumbled out of phone cabins and died of cold. Others lay on park benches, foaming at the mouth. Some fell backwards down walls they had been sitting on whilst drunk. Some survived the arrogant years, and turned into these slummy characters with pale skin and ill-fitting jeans, old trainers, bad parkas and plastic bags. Others, like Penelope, undid all the things they had done, and pretended those things had never even come to pass.
Yes, thanks, I have tried joining this post-punk resurrection tornado : a bleached and black leather, distressed denim army of middle aged faces in glitzy jackets and skinny jeans. It wasn’t quite what I had hoped for. Yes, I know. They are doing all they can, these shops full of 300 dollar skull t-shirts. But I can’t buy this feeling. Bang goes another corporate dream machine, and besides, your dreams were never even yours.
Fine, so, it says here, dissolve this powder in warm water, and I did. It ripped open the pain of a few years gone, a chorus of frogs in the underworld started bouncing up and down. The monster reared its head again, as was to be expected. With diamond eyes, pearl and silver jeweled ears, and rhinestone brows, a silver rhino, a crystal head full of rainbow prisms and glittering spheres dangling like a Christmas forest. It exhaled a chilling cloud of frozen soap bubbles and distant chimes.
Golden naked bodies, fashioned in heaven by the godly goldsmith to Hollywood, cut charmed silhouettes through a fluffy sunrise. In a cotton ball universe, unworldly and eerie like the promise of immortality itself, glitter and doom snowed down from a bag of golden brown. Empty bottles and used pill bubbles, old tissues with blood, crumpled fliers, rubber ducks and princess toys, all got crushed together in a pathetic 3D collage, held together by night’s ragged teeth.
If there was a grand puppeteer who engineered all the illusion, I would complain to him, but even the puppeteer is just a clever trick of rhetoric. Once you start looking, what’s real starts to vanish like a ghost ship.
By Polly Trope, author of the book Cured Meat, available now all over the place.