Is this an end to torment? To the Great Cause? To Progress? To Civilisation? To Life As We Know It? To the gods of Chichen Itza? To the Pleasure Principle? To Knowledge? To your local Synthetic Chicken Franchise? To the Saturday Night Game? To the future of Martian exploration? To Xanadu? To race-, wage- & gender- slavery? To free optional extras? To certainty? To ideology? To evolution? To eat-all-you-can lunchtime specials? To literacy, the novel, the book, poetry? To poverty? To property? To patriarchy? To posterity? To perpetuity? To peeled pre-washed potatoes in plastic vacuum packs? Is this finally the end of the party? Of the road? Of the line? Of “us”? Of innocence? Of your favourite TV show? Of the Big Dream? Of the Revolution? Of days in the sun? Of your season pass? Of beachfront Caribbean tax havens? Of the shelf-life’s shelf-life? Of the Autumn Sale? Is it just the end of the Beginning or really the beginning of the End? Of the Free World? Of America? Of Mickey Mouse? Of boredom? Of our sentimental academic “sense of ending”? The categorical End to end all “ends”? The end, at last, of The End? The closing act with the forty-foot flag & chamber orchestra & the monument praising the bigots & the monument spouting its own virtues & the monument tipping its hat & the monument firing blanks at the sunset & the monument whipping up a frenzy of landfall & the monument telescoping botany & the monument collecting data & the male monument calling the Nereids to its side, eye on the bikini machine & usurping Dr Goldfoot & Vinny Price topping out the scales busting her lungs? The last beam in the last eye? The grand finale falling flat? The monumental pillars fall by wayside & build up pressure in the earth’s tissue – an undercurrented opening ceremony of No Future? The persecution attics of Aquinas parthenogenesis rounding off the Noah zoologies of the hecto-ring masses’ mass hysteria? The Ultimate Cash Register rounding down the sum of all zeroes to the square of ten? The show’s takings lambaste the irreverent tilt of the hat in the midlife streets of ’10n for which n is prime’ for a prime hecatomb of nonentities? We is accountable, we is, we is hammer & tong, we is mortar & pestle, we is aggregate & cement mixer quitting 24 hours of Nothing More, just to let the message to sink in? Repast & plaster cast, jewellery & scarabs bring glass cased visions: Le Corbusier of the all-mod-cons hypermodern elevated self-sustainable microcosm of Nothing? The
last train from the pyramid scheme of GOD Incorporated to Spaceship Earth crashlanding on the lone & level museumed sands of THE END? The end. The. End.
“Surprisingly relevant… or pure prophecy? The story begins at the British Museum and ends one hundred poems later. Monument is an exhibition of our culture in freefall” — Joe Darlington, Manchester Review of Books
Written in collaboration with John Kinsella between 2012 & 2020, Monuments is a tearing down of the museum of complacency, exposing foundations constructed from the tyranny of capital, obliterating the proprietary imprint.
ISBN: 9781916159488. 114 pages. 13 x 20 cm paperback Publication date: 15 April 2020. Cover design/artwork: Bob Modem. Hesterglock Press, Bristol.