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The Far Queue

Graffiti for the Soul

Updated: 2018-04-20T11:02:59.172+01:00


'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.3


On branches fractal fragile sing a fluted refrain
All love’s tomorrows your perch to regain
~ Byrrdz ‘Catenary’ 2034

The Orator ~ Magnus Zeller

Saturday night is like any other night at the Carny since the working week ceased to exist - although some say that the Carny hasn’t changed much since the collapse, some say it was always full of people getting off their heads - no matter what the working week dictated.
Tonight, as usual, the bar is doing a rigorous trade in all manner of narcotic and rot-gut liquor; business, fiscal and carnal, is being conducted in the alcoves by people who know that morality only commands a small place in society; and from the small stage in the main hall Peye is reciting one of her Tall Tales to a silent but restless audience.
Her make-up glows; red lips on white face in the spotlight; her eyes black holes.
The first time Ellie saw Peye perform she wondered at the wisdom of standing up there with nothing between you and the crowd; she learned that first night that there is no nothing between Peye and the audience: the meathead muscle-boys on security are more than happy to expel troublemakers, a fact that has little to do with remuneration since their preferred currency is violence.
For the most part however, Peye holds the audience by force of will; the weirdness of her Tales seems to strike some long dormant curiosity in them with the result that security is seldom required to act, even if the audience is seldom impressed to any level above the nonplussed.
“And across the looming orange and, thus far, expressionless face of the moon there is drawn, for the benefit of those upturned faces below, faintly, but unmistakably, a smile" Peye concludes to a silence that lasts a heartbeat before the crowd offers up a slow clap to the accompaniment of a chorus of hisses, a response that has become customary in the Carny.
“Thank you, you’ve been a wonderful audience” Peye gives them her best in sarcasm before descending straight-backed from stage to floor and weaving her way through the crowd which now chooses to ignore her.

A Grotesque Animal


Horizons ~ Armando Veve

I’m done with walking through walls
On the promise of a warm reception
From the ghosts that live within

If I remember correctly we agreed
Never to stop listening to the music
To be true to the ideal
To bring about the new world

Yet here I am alone at the barricades
Staring at the façade
Cultivating scar-tissue for these low days

And if anger is the enemy
Then I am my own enemy
Hiding behind a mask
No matter how much I protest the contrary

Dodgy Joint


'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.2


Death needs time for what it kills to grow in
~ William Burroughs ‘Ah Pook Is Here’ 1970-ish


Those old enough to have experienced direct sunlight tend to go all dreamy-eyed when the kids ask about it; describing the feeling of warmth against the skin as if it were a mystical experience. Ellie has vague memories of it from her infancy in the north, a place and time with memories of all the suppressed pain and anger of her formative years; the years before she became.
There is no record of the such mythology being attributed to those who remember seeing the moon in full bloom; perhaps since obstruction of the sun overshadows all whose beauty depends on reflected light.
Ellie doesn’t remember seeing the moon either, but both sun and moon occupy a special place in her mind and in her rituals, many of which rely on the associated cyclical forces that act unseen on the earth and its inhabitants.
Here at the crest of the hill the sky is so low and deep grey overhead that it seems she could reach up and touch it.
The mud that cakes her boots has made the long walk from the Clave more laborious, she trudges on with the aid of the stick that Daniel spent months elaborating with his own brand of magic; whittled-in shapes and figures and hand-me-down Celtic symbols that give credence to Ellie’s position in the Clave; that serve to reinforce the tenuous nature of coercion through belief.
Its tip now mud-caked, Ellie digs it in, a third leg to lean on, and gives thanks to Gaia that it’s stopped raining.

Contractual Obligations


[Extracted from the files of Mark Time P.I.]

“We no longer find it necessary to justify our actions to those in our employ,” she sniffs and holds the silk tissue to her nose; whether to keep herself in or to keep the smell of my office out I’m not sure, “This matter requires action Mr. Time and I will not be justifying the reasons to you. Suffice to say that political damage is likely to be inflicted on the Company from rather unpatriotic circles should this not be dealt with in a most immediate and direct manner.”
She had hired me a week previously to pinpoint the source of a leak within the family business.
“You can depend on my immediate action Mrs. Scmidt” I had assured her.
She seemed to have run out of patience and while I have no qualifications when it comes to patriotism and I’m certainly no arms expert, the black hole at the end of her other arm made it perfectly clear which way the weapon was pointed.
I hate political assignments.

Easy Rider


Frank Margerin

'38 Rue Utopia ~ Ep.1


Compass, phones and GPS
Have all produced the same address
~ Wire ‘Sonic Lens’ 2017

Lucas van Valkanborch ~ View of Antwerp with the Frozen Schelde

“Ghosts! Ghosts! Ghosts!” chant the kids as they run the perimeter.
They arrived three days ago in a dry cloud of unforgiving; all amnesia and dead culture, to station themselves on the perimeter of the Clave with eye sockets empty and hearts full of dust, retaining just enough sense of self-preservation not to touch the fence.
Daniel chose to ignore them, believing that they only gain substance by attention; he warned the kids to stay away and upped the voltage on the fence.
For Daniel, survival is not an exact science but a science in itself.
And science is the Clave’s only protection since the Shaman’s disappearance; her departure leaving the Clave without any fetish protection other than the old man’s teeth which gleam gun-metal and gold in the Commons, encased in the glass case littered with Ellie’s fingerprints. She always said the teeth were in bad taste, and that the old man had been a fraud, and in her capacity as witch/doctor, is entitled to voice her opinions however she sees fit.
Daniel has always been happy to defer to her on matters of taste, a fact forgiven by the other males on account of his relationship with the mad woman. However, when it comes to man things he is less accommodating and in the early days he lost a few teeth for overstepping boundaries.
The kids love to be scared by the hairy-faced, gap-toothed and wide-eyed grin he employs to amuse them when their fingers nip at the hem of his coat calling “Goat! Goat! Goat!”

Trailing Leads


Never Truly Gone ~ Ismail Inceoglu

The buildings echo back your cry, amplifying your solitude; whispering the names of the long-lost inhabitants of these grey apartments, with their gaping eyes and rotting lace lashes, through the burst lips of sagging balconies flaked with rust that streaks the rain-beaten façade.
Sophia doesn’t live here any longer.
You shrug the pack from your back, ever lighter with the diminishing supply of dried meat from your last kill – six weeks past – and try not to let the panic rise from the ache in your gut to tightening in your chest.
The receding water has left markers on the concrete as if to document its achievements; as if to imprint itself on the lifeline of man: a watermark for undocumented deaths.
The dog howls once more in the adjacent concrete canyon, closer now, mournful and free, the hair on your neck stands up in sympathy. You return his cry once more, lifting the charged crossbow to aim at the alley mouth where he’s libel to appear.

He had dealt with the deluge alright
But the watermark of her leaving was still quite visible
~ Go-Betweens 'The River of Money'

Tales for an attention deficit world

Cool for Cats


Love Thy Neighbour


Android III ~ Peter Gric

And you turn away from the screen; you are not dead, you are not yet rot for bacterial feed but your mouth is full of blood.
Who sets themselves up as a mouthpiece for the system, the corruption? How do they sleep? What dreams of glory, of bathing in money?
And you turn away from the spectacle that beckons you to partake in the public execution of your pride, your integrity; the whittling of your mind.
Who takes their wages without product, whose goal is a Porsche and a chainsaw, a suburban sound-stage for the shallow ego; crutches for withered genitalia and starved brain; a stain on the tabloid sheets of all our tomorrows?
On what altar do you sacrifice your hope?
From what stage do you sing your lament?

Official Trailer


Coming soon:

The Far Queue presents:


the best illusions that we make
are the ones that we don't fake
~ Warhaus 'The Good Lie' 2016

Daniel leans into the plough while the horse-winch whines to turn its spiked wheels across Muddyfield. Brown arcs spatter behind each wheel as they struggle to find purchase.
Clem and Alice follow at a distance prudent to the avoidance of any more mud on their clothes; their bodies bent double, planting.
Potatoes: The Clave’s staple source of nutrient and the root of much complaint, both in the growing and in the eating thereof.
“You want Utopia, go read a book,” shouts Clem above the horse-winch whine, “Thistopia demands work.”


Here we go again: I've completed 9 episodes so far, spawned a cast of more than I know what to do with and a world that's crumbling at the edges - who knows what happen next?

Creating in Analogue (when the digital is not available)

All going well, '38 Rue Utopia will appear in weekly episodes (spanning as long as I can hold it together) and hopefully conclude as a coherent whole - But I'm not promising anything.

I would love to hear your comments/critique on each episode as it happens, post on Blogger (rather than Facebook) as yourself or anonymously; whichever suits.

I've nicked the cover (obviously) - it was created by Peter Elson for Robert Heinlein's Double Star - neither Elson nor Heinlein are likely to give a shit so here's hoping their estates are not litigious

This is not the Future...




Capilliary Locomotion (Detectives) ~ Remedios Varo

Evening delivers: Sunset façade, gleaming gold to be eclipsed by encroaching shadow from opposite building as windows illuminate yellow without soundtrack from lives internal.
Silence roars engine interruptus; tyres squeal in protest of braking foot in shiny shoe, fingers clench on steering wheel and batons blue-black bared.
Vehicle white, blue lights strobe, pulls to curb-side cracked and expels eight legs in black-suit; shiny shoes pound pavement; pink fist portal pounds; a precursor to splinters, crack and imploding door.
Hella exits via window, up to rooftop, sneakers white crunch precipice to parapet, apex to gully where rain has gathered to grow moss for sneaker slip leaving green smear on track-suit leg.
Crooked smile sliver of crescent moon cuts through the night without casting any light on the proceeding pursuit across silhouette skyline.
Hella’s breath comes in rasps, sawdust clouds from lungs unused to exertion after months of cigarettes and seclusion in safe-house sanctuary, jigsaws and mouldy paperbacks consumed from cover to cover, missing pieces mourned, confined to mental exercise; an unhealthy diet for a body in need of (f)light.
Three shiny-shoed Keystones tumble down the first roof decline, leaving one shiny shoe to describe an arc over the parapet; a distressed call of loss and a jumble of limbs from colleague number four.
Whistles blow.
Down below manacles await in fists of moustachioed plainclothes; Hella’s no match for the double-pronged trap.
Morning delivers: Tweed flanked in flash-bulb glare, her pupils black as buttons, cuffed wrists raised; the puerile press reassures the complacent that justice has been served.

Tales for an attention deficit world




It’s all very well being his Yin to her Yang
Fitting together in the songs they never sang
A covalent pair in need of repair
they push and they pull
they fight to find fair
they hurt and they heal
they find the right path
Narrow and perilous but allowing to feel



Dope Rider ~ Paul Kirchner

Aphorisms are Forever


Dive (Hong Kong 2013) ~ Wing Shya

Suspended in solution between depression and anxiety, tapping the contentment of the present, soaking up events before they are tinted by the propaganda machines into messages acceptable to the PTB.

Raw data has no agenda, it serves no master, it is the source of the river, before the dams, untainted by factories, untapped for power.
It flows through us and is changed by our perception of it; we translate it to suit our own world view.
We project ourselves through the data, we filter, we strain, we feed on it.
What you see is what we give.

As raw data we have no agenda, we serve no master. We are the source of the river, we are the dams, the factories, we are the power.
It flows through us and is charged by our perception; we translate it to suit a better reality.
We will project ourselves in the data, we will become; we will translate the world to suit our needs.
What you give is what you get.

Fables from a Forgotten Place: Lessons for Left-overs


Narrow Way ~ Michael Whelan

Little Things of the future, listen to me and I will tell you about the world the humans left us.
You must know that they were a complex specie immersed in delusions; unable to save themselves from their self-destructive urge for more.
In the old times when animals were free, the ducks lived on a pond.
The plants and bacteria that lived in the pond water provided food for ducks and the waste from the ducks fed the plants and bacteria that lived in the pond water.
Along came the humans with the belief that all animal life requires human benevolence to survive:
“Let’s feed the ducks,” they told their children, “we can use this stale bread that we don’t need anymore”
Now, humans being herd animals, all caught on to this heart-warming pastime and soon the ducks would wait around for the easy meals provided.
Unfortunately, neither the ducks’ digestive system nor the pond’s eco-system were designed for breadcrumbs, which were very low in nutritional value, and the plants and bacteria began to die from the plague of soggy mess which soon coated the bottom of the pond.
The ducks, although now suffering from bad health, became dependent on the human breadcrumbs since the pond was no longer able to provide.
Now Little Things, you should know that humans had, among their many bad traits, a tendency to fickleness; when feeding the ducks became a duty they lost interest and motivation and after some time of ill-health the ducks, now too weak to fly away to another pond, died.
It is difficult to understand these actions, so ignorant of the facts that were so readily available, but the human species insisted on its right to be wilfully ignorant and continued to do so even in the face of its own, self-fulfilled, extinction. So we, the surviving animals must now learn to live on what little is left over.
But do not despair Little Things, we do not have to worry about the humans anymore, we need only remember not to trust any species that seeks to rule the world.

Don't Jump the Gun




Neon Dependence ~ Local Preacher

Misu’s face reflects the colours of spring emanating from the HoloAd that whispers her name as it loiters at the crossing of 2635th and Endeavour.
“go away” she says knowing that it will not.
The snow flurries around her, whirlwinds and vortices through which the buildings glitter just so as they rise into the sky, as if to replace the galaxies and stars that were killed by the light so long ago; pinpoints of light that Misu is too young to miss and if you asked she’d tell you she can access the planetarium anytime from her rig.
She ignites a KelpVape and inhales the rich green vapour, expels an Africa-shaped cloud. The HoloAd, after admonishing her for her use of non-approved products, moves on in search of easier prey.

Tales for an attention deficit world

The Cold Dystopian Present


(A reflection on the 90th Annual Acadamy Awards)
Michael Whelan ~ Cover for Sepultura's Chaos A.D.

Up close, we can feel the warmth emanating from the machinery that produces the façade, driven by the pursuit of immortality, fuelled by the accumulation of wealth.
And we sit rooted to our settees, hands in bowls of malnourishing snacks and jaws repeating the lines we’ve been fed, led to believe – what else can we do?
Up close, the shamen of our times, visible only from the waist upward, perform practised gestures that conform to the acceptable and mouth spells that placate our need to be numbed, our requirement to be ruled; all decisions to be made for our own good, we who do not have the ability to understand or the will to try.
Up close, the light in our eyes is an illusion emanating not from within but rather a reflection of the flickering screen.



Humans: Alpha Species



Graffiti Shellfish


His tag reads BAD1 in clear tall and narrow letters with just enough curve and curl on the 1's shaft and little shelter to make it possible to read it as a Y, with a result that, from a distance, it could be read as BABY. And then coming closer you'd realise that the D is unmistakably a D, so then it's BADY.
Bady Grundy has been dealt some shitty cards but being called Shady Bady all through primary school has left an indelible mark.
The Christmas choo-choo still decorates Wee Ben's grave even though February is fast approaching; it's fading green and red livery leave a dry clutching at the back of Bady's jaw, as if he's going to vomit - or shit himself - or both.
He shakes the can with practised ease and sprays the little train silver.

Tales for an attention deficit world

Sorry I'm Late But...


Bus Stop


Zdzisław Beksiński

Amphyll stands in the lee of the dune, not quite deep enough to shield him completely from the sand-wind that hisses against this visor adding microscopic scratches to the already microscopically scratched surface; scratches that will become more apparent with age.
The Carbon Absorption Towers that litter the city’s boundary glow and crackle as their Capacathodes gather negative energy in quantities sufficient to satisfy municipal needs.
Amphyll vapes the hashish he bought just an hour ago from the factory on Via Orologi, and he is gently entwined in the perfume; the taste of its mystery, green and ancient.
In three days they will know whether the seed has taken root; the Moebius Timer will kick the packet into the face of Admin’s security, (the coding of which was written by The CoOp itself) and all kinds of fluctuations will be inflicted on the norm.
Amphyll wonders if they will find it this time.
His peace is shattered by the roar of the Leviptron’s sub-atomic maw.
He takes a footpad and is whished up into the body of the vehicle, passengers eying him suspiciously; as passengers do.
The info-holo hangs “Gate 339 - Next Stop: Pharma’s Market”

Tales for an attention deficit world