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The collective ran a series of workshops in our studio in Hackney Wick with the expert help of John Vicious to create content for Vicious Magazine using experiemental group processes & methods based around William Burrough’s and Brion Gysin’s ‘CUT UP’ technique. We devoured with scissor and glue amazing works of literature, pulp fiction, free newspapers, trashy celeb magz, Ethiopian community papers, spell books, cult religious pamphlets (amongst other substances), etc, etc... in a chaotic attempt to reassemble the pages. Once the dust had settled (and been swept away) Conrad Armstrong and lzabella Scott undertook the mammoth task of piecing together and making sense of the frenzied and warped pages of cut‐up ‘freakage’ that we had squeezed from the workshop. lzabella extracted and composed the poem ‘Once upon a time, here, on crumbling soil’ from the jumble. And then Conrad illustrated the poem. Here are the results.

Once Upon a Time

on Crumbling Soil

Once upon a time


on crumbling soil

the dog that hates the world


he cries and he howls at the world he left behind

a fleck in the cosmos:

Pavlov’s dog // Celebrities // Apocalypse // haha!

-- “damaged goods need therapy” --

he watches:

so the world eats the worm

and a worm eats the earth

and then

enters the world

slowly very slowly

Stop! screamed the first ——

it smacks of fraud

one billion in 1830; two billion by 1930

and by 1960 approaching five billion.


the worm is something that can be


the worm of society.

woof woof fuck off

burn the mail

and your traffic lights

burn you letters all together

burn the bricks

a bonfire of letters

packed with perks

(eating distorted confessions)

what a hypocrite!

hungry for

all our chicken

‘I wanna tell him the truth’ said Alisa

‘it be really truly genuine’

is it genuine? smacks of fraud

He knew that he could not

read her the whole letter,

burning under the traffic lights

on fire

you hypocrite

and the miniature pianos are flying around like ash clouds

I know

I don’t know

they shared a sideways glance

(the joy of cigarettes)

what the GLITCH?

I bet you was mad wet, she said

worms, we only live 18 years

Papa said, Yes

The cosmic wolf watches,

king of the Ear


The dog that hates the world


cries and howls at the world

a bonfire of letters

he left it behind

The dogdevil was enjoying a summer’s

London Evening

prime real-estate, top-quality, superior Standard

London’s Out of this world

London has no room

Leave London Behind

Madonna RIP; S Club RIP, Faith Fucking Evans, Macy Gray RIP

It’s carnage

in this zoo:

man and baboon shredding the encyclopedia of Britannia

ribbons, pulverised, tiny bits, wisps, snip-snippets

I couldn’t hack it

“Get out and stay out”


Royal Britannia no longer rules the waves


instead the indigenous mask runsrings

on his hands, five palms


old jokers, revisited, called upon: AFFLICTION

the death of the British Empire by the masked tribal handyman

ban it


The hand, o the hands

a facemask for the city


vicariously gripping each corner of my skull


the hungry posters of poison

“Touch a small skull if you can, it will bring you luck”

the skulls from the catacombs of Paris were watching me through the screen

I love Korn

the Pornstar

the body artist

WHAT THE GLITCH is this bitch still doing in my head, hellcat

Follow the golden river through the city composed of crosses, as the bird flies

time to reclaim

the lost generation

freaking prepare the free state

don large gloves and

simply incinerate them

Words: Izabella Scott

Illustration: Conrad Armstrong

Collage: Workshop Peons

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