The 7 days of Roman | a hypergram presentation / 4

With Wednesday, the mythical ‘hump of the week’ is being chased, and Roman has become a brine-pickled whaler under the command of a beserk silver-bearded captain with heart-attack eyes, seeking to harpoon the phantom monster of a rewarding existence / a demoralised knight in a faintly seedy quest, clanking in tarnished silver armour through a world of seething mutant briars and famine-razed villages, stumbling down a landslide slope of skulls, the chuckling, clacking, bobbing and popping bones of his colleagues who fell victim to the dragon of illusion and whose spirits still, trapped in the bubbles of marsh gas that now form their entire world, believe in the holy grail of a normal life and consider obedience to the system as the horizon of their ontology || Revolution in this immanently penetrated state is pleasure: the sensible indulgence in Class A drugs, the white water rafting adventure in a place which is, in essence, a glorified holiday resort or even (in the elastic miasma of Roman’s vision) a stylised jail in which it is difficult to say who, among the natives and the visitors, is the guard, and who the prisoner | Meanwhile, gigantic photocopiers blunder across the veldt, chundering and ruminating, and printers vomit | articles on cellulite and the bad days for Virgos || Roman, exhausted, in rags, with a parasol made of animal skins, must work late, and he weeps with despair beside his tree-trunk canoe | The server goes down, meaning that molecules don’t move, and the world warms by another fraction of a degree | The Mercury Lounge calls him: he will drink late and sleep little this night, but at least Dr Ethanol will anaesthetise him for a few hours as the next stage in the terrible operation of his life begins…


from the series superstyler (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, June 2012)