The buildings are in your mind, we circled them. Vandalised them. So much graffiti. It is dark like oil, it is ink, it is whatever you can imagine it to be. The writing continued. It continued to be written.
Graffiti, this menace. The train was on the playhead. Moving through the recorder.The letters were coded. The graffiti was cleaned. We followed thestreets, grey walls, a path. Everything is written. Written on a surface. The surface directs you.
We have written on your mind, written on the streets. The world is in you. The world is in your mind. Where does it end?
It is expanding, it will encircle you. We are marching into Afghanistan looking for you.
We are marching through opium fields. Opium is filling your mind. This is a gateway crime, welcome to the gate. Get over the gate and write your name on it.
I am writing graffiti in your mind. I am writing on the walls of your mind. The ink runs black and drips down the walls. The graffiti is growing. It keeps growing. It is written everywhere. This graffiti has no end. It will always keep expanding. Can you feel yourself filling with graffiti? The spaces are dark and covered in tags. This graffiti has almost filled you to capacity and it keeps growing. It is raining and the street lights glisten on the road.
Headlights broke the darkness and the rain ran down the walls like ink from a pen. The pen stroke wiped away the headlights and the clouds moved across the moon. The ink spilled out your mouth like words and filled the pen. The pen was still writing and you were spilling like ink in that dark lane. A light came on in a window. Your fingers let the ink out leaving you and the rain.
What have you done? Why have you done it? Clean this graffiti, clean it of the vandals voice. The voice is in you. The vandal writes on the walls.
The machines bulk sat in the distance. It was akin to a pyramid. It was surrounded by sewerage systems built below its base. I looked down into the bowels of the machine. It showed very little only structure. So much organisation and thought had gone into it. This machine. Its dull sheen softly diffracted the sun’s rays. A child gazing at the machine. This society. This centre of control. This contrivance. This mass. The machine created all of this.
You are embarressing shameful like the shame written across your face. Your whole family is ashamed. Senseless vandal. What have you done but written this shame? A shame machine writing your life across walls. You must be brought to justice by the hand of righteousness, that falls like a hammer from the sky.
The rubbish is spilling onto the street. The graffiti has emerged from your mind. The alley is dark and it is cold and wet. The rain is falling. The graffiti was written and the rubbish spilled across the laneway. The ink spilled down the
wall. The wall was covered in ink. The ink filled you and it spilled out of your eyes onto the laneway. Your hands were covered in ink. Your hand became a pen and your mind wrote on the walls as you travelled from place to place in the dead of night.
You are getting smaller like a dot. The graffiti is greater than you. I am disappearing into this graffiti. It covers me growing. It is everywhere. It is filling the streets.
The short radio bursts emmitted from the edge of the universe distract me. The graffiti is everywhere. Can you stop it?