January 2013 – “no regrets” – Amor Patriae by Paul Evans

Amor Patriae

By Paul Evans

Behold a God among Men! Having forged Utopia I am Master of my Keep.

System exploitation: the recipe for success.

My cuboid is my Palace. As familiar and comforting as a well-worn hoodie. Its boundaries cocoon me from predator, sky and mistruth. A pressurised bubble preserved in a vacuum of apparent ignorance. Walls, floor and ceiling financed by fools. I evade drudgery and chains and observe the enslaved perversely.

I know this guy who can get you what you want. Cash only.

The liquid crystal ball was once a vexation. Its narrow scope and linear schedule offered little control. A vista of political and military games and environmental collapse provided little amusement. With little to learn of the way of the world I favoured the jesters. They unanimously limbo beneath my punch line: they perform without payment. I am too wise and too sly. A fox with a box.

I jobbed my box! Seen this? It’s not out yet. Yours for a tenner.

Small Society tech’ satiated my panoramic lust and I ravaged the Goldilocks Zone. Machines bathed me in their cool exhalation as the world tilted to the sun. Days shortened. Power bars emitted wavelengths to sustain me. Such radiance the construct of invisible pillars, entwined with that of multi-core processors and chargers of all creeds. Tectonic calamity provided thermostatic justification. Volcanoes have erupted from one mass-extinction to the next.

Heat … the energetic abomination. Supply and demand continue to steer the economic band wagon. Energy crisis? The mugs are paying.

Am I bovvered? Can I spell? I refer you to my last.

The hole in the miserable sky dilated without me. Heaven’s spat discharge broke with futility against my pane. Footie was on. The Web provided and the spider feasted. Width of band bloated. I grew fat and happy. I don’t like spiders. I don’t like paedos.

Uploaded topless photos of my ex with her hair in bunches. Slag.

Border conflict disregarded scale and geography. The Sand People have returned and in greater numbers. Who cares? The Pigs are agreeably impotent (no piglets tomorrow!) and the Squaddies are dying. Why do they bother? Sightlessness.

I think my neighbour’s been siphoning petrol from my motor. Can’t prove it though.

War! What is it good for? Majority shareholders. Devoid of conscription our children volunteer to be put to the sword. Are they not as wise as me? Or was the games console not enough? I respect a killer. I respect my Queen. HM is the Queen of Welfare … but is far too busy for my liking.

God save the Queen. Who will save God? Be good or plummet to the eternal inferno. Good? Good is compliance. Good is control. Don’t turn off your television set and do something less boring instead … like conduit your wretched bleating into action. Each orbit His birth is commemorated by on-screen catastrophe. Soap: the new religion. Remain in your seats please.

Click here if you Like.

Society has sustained me at every tier. Forms are the State’s cheque books; the Social Services – in their blessed legions – are my clerks. Tell them your name Pike. The system is my eager bitch; gullible and laughably easy to use.

Of course I love you baby.

Neither swan nor egret shares my nest. No regrets.

Knights defend my prey. Clad in bilious armour and wielding that which is mightier than the sword, they would thwart my plunder. A nation cowers behind a flimsy buttress of Risk Assessments. Yet accidents happen. I blame. I claim. There’s plenty of meat on the carcass if – like the vulture – you’re prepared to stick your head up its arse and gorge. I don’t like sweetcorn.

The NHS is always good for a five figure sum. Post-war Britain’s shining protégé: an end state for a better future. The dreamed pair of exquisite, medicine-laden breasts now factory lines of inflamed, blood-yielding dog nipples. A victim of its own triumph. Or of wanton media?

Papers are read. Nicola (19) and Sammie (21) tell me what I need to know; the back pages tell me what I want to know. The papers tell me to despise do-ers and foreigners. Here’s to the future of domestic and foreign policy. The Scots are revolting. Will my passport be amended to simply read ‘Kingdom’?

I’ll drink to that.

I walk among you with impunity. I swear, secure in the conviction that I am the last bastion of free speech. I feed on your kind. Never – EVER – dis[respect] me. But you won’t. You’re “better than me”. I’m “not worth it”. Your words are a veneer (venereal?) You are afraid and weak.

As weak as The Victim from school. The inhaler-sucking wheeze-monster. Non-brand shoes. Terminator teeth. A blood-spray spotted grid. Clad in living cheese. A walking shampoo advertisement. Always … always nervous. You know the one. I saw him earlier. A handsome success by his standards. He regarded me as refuse. As if he hadn’t have made it without my character-building.

I begrudgingly contribute via life’s necessities. Dues are paid. Cigarettes and booze rebound mug money to the treasury. It’ll be back in my hand next week … providing an ambulance gets to me in time. I’ve been lying here a while now.

The slightest movement heralds an orchestra of pain from within. Breathing hurts.

I wish the mugs would pay for more paramedics.

I wish I’d charged my phone.

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