Raising ourselves above the plains, for a moment. Looking around. Surveying the landscape. Checking the lay of the land. What do we see?
The horror, the fucking horror.
To be allowed our horror. To be permitted our recoil. For a few moments. To know, with our disgust, that we’re not totally enclosed.
What choice do we have? What role can we have? What are we to do here?
Just to scream? To raise a cry? To protest? Against what they’ve done. At the world they’ve made and are making. Is that enough?
What do we call them, the enemies – the ultimate enemies?
The ones who are in charge of all this. The ones who are in charge of the redevelopment. The ones who raised this campus from the ruins. Who destroyed the old Newcastle Brown building …
The ones who planned this campus. The ones who cleared the ground. Developed it. The visionaries. The maniacs. Who moved us to Organisational Management. The puppetmasters of Organisational Management. Who are behind Organisational Management. Who are using Organisational Management. The secret controllers.
What do we call them? They, that’s all. Them. Our paranoid fantasy. Greater than our paranoia, which is something. Vaster than our agoraphobia. Limitless. The horror that cannot be contained – not even here. Not even on the Organisational Management campus.
Our protest. Our last cry.
We see it All and are appalled by it All.
We Realise. We’re Aware.
We’re battered, broken. We’re destroyed by this. But we sing, in our ruins. The drunken fragments sing.
Work in Progress 