Structural Adjustment Programme
by Matthew Fuller

The monument to the hairstylist who introduced the cut of the sect of Joanna Southcott to Marx and Proudhon, (radically distressed beehive and generous lambchops) had amidst the turmoil, become a place to hang out.

Under the towering marble curling tongues sprawled knots of people, spread out on flattened boxes or standing around chewing their tongues. A couple of girls look bored and absently cigarette themselves.

A vegan, is doing the routine:

"So you don't eat eggs?"

"Only eggs from the human female."

"So you don't drink milk?"

"Only human milk."

"But your shoes are of leather?"

"These are made from the skin of my grandmother."

Language decorticated, goes into a botched autopoiesis.

Structural Adjustment Programmes: data mining for a better world...

...Cholesterol fear feeding on you like family... ...The Ketamine Beings and the Elven Ones battling it out for the future of humanity in the skies above the city...

...Eyewitness reports Satan's sphincter eclipsing the sun to release foul murky perfumes which, on touching the earth's surface, gradually solidify as centerbrow roadside attractions for booksops on the ironic Grand Tour.

At one such location, the festively costumed villagers are opening up a vintage barrel of psycho-social chocolate malt. It is a special day for one and all. Sword fishes especially bred to have low self-esteem slash themselves into uniform fish steaks when they see that they are not ever going to be part of that happy throng. The people seize on the bodies of the suicided fish and barbecue them. Then the village patriarch appears in a splendid ceremonial smock and passes out the brochures for the new adult education college. Each villager will take one evening class. They drink the malt from a large goblet. At the bottom of the barrel is a gigantic psychoactive maggot covered in slimy chocolate. The patriarch dices the maggot. Everyone eats.

At night the teenagers of the village disappear to fornicate with one another in the surrounding woodlands. They disport themselves in the ancient manner laid down by the village marketing consultancy. Their routines - a compelling admixture of Busby Berkeley and the Marquis de Sade --- are extremely complex and lengthy in their delicacy. Let us bend an ear their way as the official invigilators pass amongst them with their clipboards.

"O'er here happy lascivious fellows! Behold my splayed buttocks for you to savour!"

"By the worm gods of our ancestors I shall have it whilst my tumultuous shaft is being slurped by this insane tart. Quickly sir, expunge the sweet loam from your bowels so that I may taste of it!"

"Splendid! Rest your rancid cunt on my face, grind your seemingly well-gnawed clitoris onto my brow and allow me to tickle your perineum thusly with my lips. Then, after a five second wait, and exactly ten thrusts of my bloated tongue into your young arse we will pause for two beats, swap positions, link arms, shimmy backwards, click our heels together like so and then I will again have you, Madam, by the arse. At this point all the girls will form a twin line whilst the gentlemen lie in a starburst formation on the floor and frig themselves to a four four beat.

"After ten seconds the two formations will merge and follow the next manouevre. Now watch carefully. The girl will tit-fuck the young man, all the while remembering to smile of course. Whilst this is happening another girl will lean back into his arms and offer her richly honeyed cunt to the mouth of the other. Then, the second line of boys will tap dance through, lodging their painfully engorged cocks into theproffered shitters of each lower girl until the full ensemble is formed. After four beats the groups will switch to form a circle in which the first girl will with utmost violence service the second with her fist as the men discharge copiously onto each others chests and, maintaining their smiles, faint with rapture. From above, the several circles will of course be seen to form the shape of a giant, uniformly undulating sea anemone caressing and being caressed by the radioactive currents of the Pacific."

That night a thick mist swirls around the village, and when dawn breaks, it is no more.

"Better paranoid than misinformed," intones a peculiar old figure stepping out of the swirling grey shapes. It is almost all that remains of the blockbuster actor who in his long-gone heyday specialised in chirpy on-screen portrayals of totally dumb ultraviolent robots.

"Can you help me?" he whimpers, "this radio I bought, it's ancient. Only receives transmissions from the stations marked on the dial, Helvetia, London...all I can get is that fucking stupid big band sound and hourly news about the Allies' progress towards Berlin at the end of the Second World War."

A shifting carapace of bad video jerks in and out of visibility around the shape-changer.

Relax. Emote control. Watch your dreams turn to still-born blags in the hands of this gifted fricoteuse. Amalgamate accent working away over the original glossolalia. Death rattle feedback creeping in at the edges of his voice-patch. He's currently the sniffer for a perpetually botched copstate working the routes of the global plantation economy: When money says, There Shall Be Open Borders, this is the motherfucker that finds the proof of purchase printed on the back of your dainty little head and breaks out the hack-saw and skull key in his trembling hands. Nothing brings him on like a repellent whiff of a potential no-go zone.

"Don't tell me. You get stricken: you got a toss up between a butcher and a battery farm. What do you expect? Charity? There's tip-loads of hominid maggots out there with the flag tattooed to their suppurating stumps and an unseemly thirst for the readies. It's the way things go sugarplums."

Assumed skin, with the ruptured sl urping of a spoon stuck deep in real fruit-flavoured jelly being rapidly and repeatedly agitated, billows repulsively as it quivers and wracks loose from its moorings at the promise of another juicy subsumption.

"Welcome to my acid-filled pool girls and boys. Do dive right in!"

Welcome to the floating world, the tradesman's' entrance to the supra-rational economy of the deranged and the sacrificial. A synergistically blended mix of the vindictive and mundane that has taken itself to virtually every corner of the globe, bridging the language barrier with its warmth and enthusiasm - dedicated quite simply to the beauty of feeling and emotion and to the hope that someday all mankind will live in harmony. The production of pure excess populations sensitively arranged to span the spectrum of all human involvement. A theatre of operations uniquely praising the multi-faceted loveliness of love: command, control, communications and intelligence as an unparalleled showbusiness phenomenon. And the bodies keep mounting, each one speaking their very own universal language, the language of love. Corpse upon tantalising corpse.

When two endoscopes spot each other across a crowded colon a certain something is established.