The magnetic vortex of the silver spoon

A metro-political fungus has emerged within the city walls. Infectious outbreaks have spurred throughout the labyrinth of streets, a localised colony of darkness. The metamorphic parasite has latched upon the most densely populated areas, clinging to the pavements with dirty and stained fingertips. The anathematic being silent in step, yet infectious to moral integrity. Immunity is strong, dehumanisation is the antidote. Don’t stare too long into those desperate eyes.

The jingling change of the pied piper has lured the beast into proximity. The war cries are being sketched into the morning, as the onlooking rats relinquish to the filth with their coffee-stained ties. On the ninth bell, the defenders emerge. Silent warriors illuminated by the holy hydrogen bulb. Faceless and patiently waiting. Oh, how beautiful they are, draped in all desires; laden with illustrious thread counts that warms even a polyester soul. The great defenders await the onslaught, as the battle becomes inevitable. The battle of the high street, famine against fashion. Who will wage victorious?

Of course, this is no match the ragged beggar has already lost, vanity has banished morality. Yet, echoes of darkness still remain, clutching at the fringes, battling a new battle; an ideological battle with the top cats and billboards. The beaten rogue is left desperate in eye, and see through of hand; shunned even further from society but still pounding on the door for sanctuary. Lest forget these are those with tunnelled noses and pickled arms, those who have fled the garden. Pickled minds that are not worthy, tarnished carpets cannot adorn their feet. The template skyline should not welcome them. Yet wait. The orb of perfection is contaminated. Cracks can be seen within the pearly gates.

Whilst Saint Peter lavishes those who enter with fragrance and false smiles, little does he know his righteous heart has been duped and he is welcoming the children of the commodity into a swirling abyss of deceit. The real terror has penetrated the kingdom, in fact, has created the kingdom. The off-shore giant, the almighty puppeteer. Twisted smiles propped up by dinning suits which are vaguely blemished by pink splatters of lobster tails. Black AMEX’s brandish the air stopping at nothing; only lingering though bowls of fine powder. Allah, Hare Krishna, Vishnu; I welcome you with stooped back and open wallet.

Who would have known, the silver spoon reflects contorted fangs and tyrannical madness? Climb out of the void of anxiety and contempt. The mirror has shattered, perfection is ugly. Sanitation is not freedom. Look beyond the image, a representation of values, often are hollow. True liberation is not an aesthetic.

The magnetic vortex of the silver spoon

Capitalistic Therapy

‘…although “Western Buddhism” presents itself as the remedy against the stressful tension of capitalistic dynamics, allowing us to uncouple and retain inner peace and Glassenheit, it actually functions as its perfect ideological supplement.’[1]

For Slavoj Zizek, Western Buddhism is sold as a cure, or at least a solution for the stress of the capitalistic society that is our world. But he argues that in fact, through Buddhist practise, we as individuals are able to take more on and therefore contemporary mindfulness does not hel to diminish the problems thrown onto us, yet in fact allows us to take on more. Zizek has rightly put Western Buddhism within quotation marks, as his issues are not that of Western Buddhism, yet that of the contemporary mindfulness movement that is rippling through the Western World; embodied in apps, literature and classes; any sellable product in fact[2]. Mindfulness, in this sense has become a product, a product that can be promoted with being both Buddhist, yet often not religious, and with great medical benefits. It has become a spiritual pill that the Western World has become eager to consume. Continue reading “Capitalistic Therapy”

Capitalistic Therapy

A state of consciousness


The bleached walls, reflect nothing. Nothingness is everything.

The void, an abyss, limbo or a corridor. You choose.

A small figure perched behind a basic desk.

‘Are you on time?’


‘Join the line’

Stooped figures become prominent. Previously unseen, breaching the haze of nothingness.

Crooked shapes uninterested in anything other than the swipe of a thumb.

Nausea strikes amid the sea of nothingness.

The bleached walls penetrate a plethora of senses.


Is this hell?

A state of consciousness


Soaring on tattered wings. The ever-pulling currents of the landscape plucking at my feathers, landing to lie with my brainwashed brothers and sisters.

Crisp mountainous air pierces my lungs, the life-force of liberty. Solidarity provides vision of the hell below. The hell that is forever swamping, forever pulling. My tiny heart floods with pain as I watch my beloved companions enticed by shallow dreams.

Outstretched fingers under the guise of trees. Illusions of the changing seasons. All entailing false hope.

Entrapment and forbidden fruits all for the taking.

Careful my brothers, careful my sisters.

Protect your tattered wings.