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
here
on crumbling soil
the dog that hates the world
squats
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.
culture
the worm is something that can be
recycled
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
ATTENTION:
The dog that hates the world
squats
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”
LIVID
Royal Britannia no longer rules the waves
SEACOCKS
instead the indigenous mask runsrings
on his hands, five palms
Outrage!
old jokers, revisited, called upon: AFFLICTION
the death of the British Empire by the masked tribal handyman
ban it
sunk
The hand, o the hands
a facemask for the city
hands
vicariously gripping each corner of my skull
THEY ARE SELLIN’ STORIES
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