The symbols that we use are T shirts of the dead thoughts of corpses without heads, a rictus without sound – open-mouthed, empty, unbound. And if you ever write those clichés which incite my approbation, fuck you, I am not amused. And if I ever do, then fuck me too.
I battle with the icons of our time, not so much the images as those inclined to overuse the gushing phrases, rabid writers praising vapid lies, journalistic worms still at the maggot stage of feeding on the headless corpses, reading symbols from their graphic shirts, descending into dismal depths of gutter meaninglessness and desperate doggerel.
The nearest I have heard a ‘personality’ decline hysterical inanity was when he said, “that’s real life, it doesn’t always have a happy ending…” he had described his own demise, he fell from grace, he was displaced by higher ratings inspired through insipid boardroom compromise.
My sympathy was strained within a breath of balanced reason, drained of all compassion and decision by the consequences rising from Steve Irwin’s death. When networks went beyond the pale of deference and showed the clichéd scenes of Steve and baby Bob and croc repeatedly as counterpoint I was incensed. He’d died that afternoon. And there they were, already feeding on a feast of vile controversy.
But further yet, the eunuch bitch with no veneer, of course I mean her holiness Ms Germaine Greer, thundered into print to plant her boot as firmly as she could into a legend she maintains is self-delusion. Not unusual for Germaine. The Doctor has delusions too, she believes with vagrant honesty that she eclipses Steve in every form of tragi-comedy.