Extract from 'Perrix' by Jack Burston

Expecting Perrix, Lillian changed from grey into pink. She also turned off the television and turned on the radio. Lillian fingered through the periodicals then thumbed through the angled blinds (occasionally parting them to potentially spot an arriving Perrix). Lillian sat, she prepared to eat the sandwich that she had prepared to allow her appetite to become small in Perrix's presence. The appetite-alterer contained cheese, butter, tomato and mayo. Lillian demolished the snack and hid the plate.

Perrix climbed along the 'pathway' that led to Lillian's. He was persistently annoyed by her description of the route as a 'pathway'. There was too much climbing involved - there was no route, except the roots of the 'beautiful' blackberry bushes. Perrix felt that Lillian had confused beauty and usability when naming the 'pathway' as such.

The blackberry bushes, despite their troublesome roots, were important to Perrix's trips up the hill to see Lillian. He would leave his house fifteen minutes earlier than required, and spend these spare minutes sitting on the slight bank beside the bushes. Whilst on the rock he picked berries from the bush. He lined his stomach before his tea with Lillian - he didn't want her referring to him as 'The Glutton'.

'Raw-brack of Lamb 2' by Jack Burston

Raw-brack walked through the gate that foot-noted the end of his trimmed front garden. He sneezed in reaction to the pollen. The mask filled with mucus. With the paper in his inside pocket he carried on towards the bus-stop. He nodded in the direction of a rapidly sobering bench dweller.

He showed his pass to the driver and moved up the stairs. Raw-brack sat as close to the front as possible: third row. Whole row to himself. He pulled the paper from his pocket. He recited the address.

"Fifteen Maurice Avenue. Upper Bredmo. Carlstown. Zip code is: 8765-680-abdjjk."

Faster:

"Fifteen Maurice Avenue. Upper Bredmo. Carlstown. Zip code is: 8765-680-abdjjk."

Faster again:

"Fifteen Maurice Avenue, Upper Bredmo, Carlstown. 8765-680-abdjjk."

He placed the paper back in the zip lined pocket. He reconstructed the train station and recalled where he would be able to find the timetables.

'Raw-brack Hol.' by Demost

'Raw-brack of Lamb 1' by Jack Burston

Raw-brack dragged on his mask and walked to the kitchen. He sat, rolled the mask up to his nose and reached for the milk on the table in front of him. He slurped and swallowed. Beneath the milk, papers and clippings covered the table. Behind him a symmetrical mural covered the cupboards and the walls that held them up. He held a strongly highlighted, much rippled note, describing the address of a director. The paper had arrived to him from his contact. The contact was well concealed, but still unreliably visible. Raw-brack had dragged him through puddles and thrown him into walls, but the physical did little for the contact's reliability - but he provided.

'Swansong' by 'Spratt Writes, Scotch Draws'

Extracts from 'Boog' by Jack Burston

c. v. x. ii. iii. ix. xiii. xiv.

'Bouncer Ice Creamin Again' by Jack Burston

'Every- Fills Out In The End' by Jack Burston

Every- fills out in the end, got to maintain the levels and the heights, a protein there and a complex carbohydrate in the back. Plastered walls covered with papers, diets, sick promises and apologies surround the central: the clover smelling seller in the middle. Pleading through the walls and posters to the surrounding crowds. And in no clearness: from the outside, this is a simple mound of 'art installation' dirt that has excelled in the city for years, but still, it houses its artist.

When Sarah slipped in to its design, she received the plaudits with a grin and gratitude that charmed them in to cushioning her commission with hints and advice.

As she went to the building stage, she delegated too far and relied on the workers, she took no place in the construction. Leaning on the concept post, she ordered them and tarnished them with curses when errors were made. Sarah cursed and ordered until the very last moment of construction, when pointing to the middle of the design, the construction workers placed her in the centre of the mound. Fulfilling the concept -- the builders locked the door permanently.

'Ringbinder: Reactive: Rest Up Through' by Jack Burston and Murray Somervile aka 'Spratt Writes, Scotch Draws'

Click on da image for a larger version with supreme quality.

'Spogg' by Jack Burston and Murray Somerville aka 'Spratt Writes, Scotch Draws'

Click it for larger, better qualitata.

'Every-dahdah People' by Jack Burstona and Murray Somerville aka 'Spratt Writes, Scotch Draws'.

Clicky on the image to get a larger version with supreme quality.

'Red Chilli' by Jack Burston

In presence are the following:

Tee
Elle

Excellent, but I've got to leave along the line and there are a few distractions in here, games console, chatter and bad jokes. Little food in the cupboard, but bean chilli becomes a possibility when I spot a few kidney and pinto beans, chillies and chopped tomatoes: barely enough though. I experiment with keepy-ups and a few swings around the tree in the falling. I await the gate that the landlord promised several months ago. I question the purpose of the Droop Inn opposite.

And red as it isn't after the events of Blue Sunday, the twitches through the morning and the itchy nose in memory of vodka and soda. It isn't red anymore, just pale to tanned, settling for the simple and the constant, despite need for the complicated and the diminishing. No chilli, just toast and vegetable oil.

'Bouncer Ice Creamin' by Jack Burston

Saluting the sun with a couple of ice creams, the bouncer sat up early in the day. Usually a later riser, and starter, the bouncer was at work early today - he wasn't a friend of football but he did involve himself with the larger lanes of European football, still though: early start, late finish. The ice cream though, was melting slowly and despite the time, the sun wasn't heating the black uniform.

Awaiting 'Zaza in Tempestuous'?

The 'first' one page piece of comic/storyboard shiz from 'Spratt Writes, Scotch Draws'
is coming soon.

Excellent.

Emancipation: Thursday through September.

Tune, from Thurs. onwards, I'm emancipated like a serf in 1861. Flat-out-tune. As such plans hatched before the date, and revisiting texts is becoming surplus when added to plan hatching, ergo, a variety of missions appear like 'visions of Zim' and the 'cares and whims' of a tune free for the Summer are unwieldy.

Consequently, got a friend, he's moving in to Avon Cottage, going to keep everything in 'Proportion' and there will be a grand range of work produced by 'Spratt Writes, Scotch Draws'.

And so as such I introduce to the stage a triangle of tunes, designated for limited, wide audiences: I, understand, the, paradox.

"Welcome to Tunington."

"Thank you."

"Tip!"

c. v. astlefield.

An Extract/Rant from 'Pro sipped. i.' by Jack Burston

“I mean, true that, but is it ‘understandable’ when I’ve decided to laters things with such ease? And the meaningless debt that I’m piling is just that: piling, above and in front of my personally favoured style between the corn field and the meadow. In fairness that meadow owns every single road and I’m not being pastoral and I’m not trying to pasteurise my rural milk in to a drinkable in school commodity, but it should be reasonably soft to drink and it shouldn’t fall on my cornflakes like cream unless I want it to. And if I pile up several ounces of brown sugar with a layer of the white above the cereal and let it tumble in to the milk after it’s decided whether it wants to stay on the flakes, should I start cleaning up my aorta with a pipe cleaner. Should I be flexing my heart more? I mean heart’s a tune and it beats with regularity and gives us an intolerably instinctive sense of rhythm but it’s a drastic act when you start weight lifting with it.”

A Legendary Dog c. v. xiii. xviii. iv.vi.vii. vii.

'Fleeting Gnats/Cameron Durswith versus Zaza' by Jack Burston

"Alright Durswith, how are tricks pal?"

"Ney bad, ney bad."

"Seen Zaza?"

"Yeah, he was knocking about the other night I think."

"Fair play, it's dastardly out there tonight, crackling thunder and a bit of rain, did you manage to finish that storyboard?"

"Nearly, got a few more to complete, but you know le drill, will just have to mission it."

Durswith and Akt sat down and talked a little more, meanwhile, Zaza prospered on his market stall, he sold out of everything. Zaza was a master salesman, he was apprenticed by the older members of his family. It was appropriate for Zaza to sell out because his brother did the same before him -- his father had sold out often until he began to lose his speed around the stall. The market square matched Zaza's hair, all perpendicular and segemented -- his hair was square but Zaza was not, he couldn't be: he was looking for an office job.

15% von cvi. ix. AKA 'Cameron Durswith ii' by Jack Burston

"Generosity excursion is fruitful for minutes and the hours slopping from your escaping dirt bringing filth love is not very personable, it is however very
excitable for this time of Autumn. Not particularly Autumnal, but, yet, still reasonably coppered leaves and a sense of sentimental tinkering with the clocks and the push towards an erstwhile hour; of course the burgeoning after strokes are just falling out: save, save, save, building up the mother load -- for quite, no reason. More likely: dropped off on the train. Variable weather tempers the contrast between and over the potential in the pairing that is not preempted but pre-emptied in preparation, the tone of the build up is clearly anticipatory but it is also content with a happy remain of the already gained, of course the margin is tighter, arguably flexing under the weight of its perfectly eatable balance. Pining for an apple, originally supposed for a mouth -- now just all over the carpet, not needlessly though; an endless flow of deliciously pineless juice rushing down through the fibres and fiborous, naturally."

"Flex Mex, wrap it in a burrito, exposition expedition, wrapped in a burrito, ya dig?"

"Exposito. Brilliant, tune even, tune."

"Are you Cameron Durswith?"

"Gee, shucks, am I?"

"Sure."

"Classified."

"Ah?"

"Classified."

cviii. ix.

Revisiting 'The Footage' by Jack Burston and Murray Somerville. xvii. civ. vi. xiii. xvi.

An extract from 'Degrid' by Jack Burston

Exit car left and of course turn right, dapper shoes and a cane from my right hand; sure, the shorts were on but the dinner jacket remained along with the previously mentioned shoes/cane and surplus to this: sunglasses, brass britches and a crassly worn bandana. It was not the expected mess of a trip to work but it was degrading in the sharply coming rain. I was rustling in my pocket, sure, searching for a couple of coins and a cough mint; awful chance of a cold in this weather, sure.
“Off to the shore Degrid?”
“To work Slacedy, seen Zach today?”
“Nah, sure he’s about, at the cards again probably.”
“He’s Top Ten!”
“Yes Degrid, a tune, pure tune.”
Slacedy was a former neighbour, and he was a fellow follower of Zach, the eternal card player, whose boots would occasionally come close to being hung by a new job or a new woman, but they never quite reached the hook. I simmered down towards the bus and journeyed to town, bonus, sure, up the stairs and out hours later. In recollection: work becomes a full stop, sure.

c. vi. iv. xi.

'Ah?' by Jack Burston

"I can't, I'm going to Bermont-trafflo."
"Ah?"
"Bermonttrafflo; to see Rusko?"
"Where's Bermonttrafflo?"
"Near, Glue-stirrer?"
"Whaticus?"

Cameron Durswith had an erstwhile friend with small, tapered ear lobes and a desperately skinny set of wrists. Durswith, naturally, confused his friends with inaccurate descriptions of place names, as well as the irrational nature of his journeys to such places in order to obtain entronz in to places such as airports and Italy. If Cameron Durswith was successful in a description of a geographical joint, it was usually irrelevant.

Raj and No-leans sat behind the industrial factory and relaxed in the stuffiness of the eighties fabric, Raj jittered:

"Bermont-trafflo, is that a real name?"
"Can't see it, sounds unreal in my opinion?"
"Keep saying 'tune' like this: chonn!"
"Au natur bretherin, au natur, anywho: Bermont-trafflo?"
"Might have to Encyclopedia it?"

Raj and No-leans, now with chocolate milk sat, and No-leans mumbled:

"Did you Encyclo it brev?"
"True that."
"Verdict?"
"Well, according to Encyo, slash this atlas thing I've got, it's technically Bermont near Trafflo. The bus station is called Bermont and Trafflo. There is no Bermonttrafflo. Bit of a tune I reckon."
"Bit of a chonn you mean?"
"Chonn."

Murray Somerville's Radiohead Animatic

Go and have a watch of me pal Murray's proposal for the Aniboom Radiohead video competition:






If you like Murray's stylee of doodlee, click anywhere here.

Thanks, zaza.

Read. Wallow. Watch. Swallow.

'Fear of Fraternity' by Jack Burston

I left my phone beneath me, downstairs last night so this morning I woke to a single alarm. Sitting up, my throat was gnawed by the beginnings of a cold. Crisply removing myself from the house I began as we all do, to start the universal day. An event took place which prevented me from attending my teaching:I stopped the bus and exited. Deadly awaiting, I baited some faith and fished for my friend Brian. He was sold out. Heading for the books I videoed a hero. Cross hair murder filling the streets apparently. Yes, he’s a specialist in the obscure and a master of the Siamese. Community spurred on and spirited by dead industry and failing commerce. The price of a home becomes a jelly baby born of a split Robber, a tsar of wasted times and cremated Semitism. The single alarm; born out of crispy larynx and a leader with militant duality. Dent and mush his cries! Tenacity, softly tries to show that we share much, though, death for adultery and lions of black. Devoid of a principle community, we are full of raids that revere silence.

We awake with dual alarms. Wacky and doodling a triplet alone. Never referencing anybody but Dyl and I am at least, exalted in this.The crisp references and similes, just like my throat, speed through the morning melody and miss it at times. Curled girls seep through the tune and caps lock our thoughts. Simultaneously, sane and big-eyed. We all need a Pablo in the mornings. Where we wake ill and regretful. To reissue opportunity through the opiates and doors of an endless theatre. A jubilant Jill might accompany me through these arches. To revisit and join in the past, lost opportunities. I prosper in them when inventing. First at times, we dwell. Luring in memories and exhaling them out differently. The auditor has become old, but still issues vetoes. Severe ideas bend out the night, thoughts and memories. Dressed as a pirate, attaché to the night. Prevented boardings regretted and revered in discussion amongst brothers. The sense of lost power, the Chase that I raced had electricity.

The power won in victory over the Chase was born in to an emerging quartet of fraternity. Brothers beginning to drink gin, and beginning to find maple leaves. These Fratellizin, advised me against the curls of the girls and pushed my crispy throat against the wall until the melody; the father of this morning’s tune, began to pour forth and dirty the floor with its crudeness. The surly bass that emerged. Inverted my attitude, and I tapped my hand and thumped my foot in to a chicken dish as I witnessed it. The power that gives birth to fraternity.

Loathing of eternity brews in the sixtieth fraction of my thought. The power that fuels fraternity faces up to the end and smashes a mirror. Drunken, learning, punching song from the lungs to hand, and lip syncing in time with the greatest heroes of these brothers here. The notes elope, entering ears with whispers and kisses. Bent, vibrating and echoing. In the same car that made it to Edinburgh and Plym, I will execute and fulfil, my every whim.

So in the seats alongside and behind me, I will have the following three: the actor, the illustrator, and a music man, known only by middle E. In the car in front or maybe behind there will be a drummer, a socialite, a devil horn, a surfer and a guitarist. The personal whim, becomes, it is, a different location. Where wheels are set and the course is dew, leaning wetness, searching for some dry laughter. A stump of leering wood will spurn laughter and I feel a clump of neoprene school girls will empower disaster.

And occasionally I will talk of the pirate, the attaché to the night, the missed invasion, the crispy little boarding. The perfect form that morphed so quickly this last Saturday night. And still occasionally I will crisply describe the curls, the dodged, but Pablo incurring eyes. But, regardless, the next alliance has to be realised as I skip through the coarse brilliance of The Videoed Hero. I talk to my mother and realise, the acute dew in my eyes. I begin to draw the multiplicity of the two cars together. The Edinburgh to Plym, and the instinctual whim, they are drawn from power. Drawing the individual forms, the pirate, the curls, the jubilant Jill, I change, I become an individual sequence of communal artistry. As I become the individually amalgamated artist, using my forms as a filter. The scenes of early evening dew will become stronger and the trips will become emphatic and defining. The Fratellizin will each become individual before reconvening, and leaving the constant moisture of calm fission to solo soar. They will plan beyond Edinburgh and far beyond Plymouth. A curly, soft lady pirate will call, and the ‘lizins will leave for Dover’s white mouth.

'Amalgamation 1' by Jack Burston

‘After two great powers, there will be a single amalgamation.’

Ex-President Papaver, July 21st, aged 75,

i

My brother died in the seclusion zone they put him in, modern Presidents were treated this way in the aftermath of their reign. He dribbled and murmured, he was John my brother, Claire, was my sister, she uttered and stammered. I had to decode them often and it dehumanised me. My brother’s final, dribbled words are the words that I quoted to start this. He was predicting. He was in love with the nearness of the void.

S
ii

The skyline of Nankelfield had being destroyed by growing tallness. The remaining burns of post-industrial loss ran right the way through the town and into my burning crevice. Flat 25-14 was twenty five floors up, too far up. Lorne Road was a long way beneath me. Occasionally people would call, the only route to the ex-President was me, and so they would call, and call, until they were dead or until they forgot who I was and why I was here. My accent still dribbled. It was a more coherent version of my brother’s, but still a distinct dribble to those around me in Nankelfield. My nephew would ring occasionally. The sons of Presidents were secluded like their Fathers. Political Inheritinzin had become the foundation of political supremacy. My brother was a dead King Bee, and his son never knew. Slipping in and out of importance, John Papaver Jr was a floundering nephew, but his blood was brilliant. His father had changed the skull of America into a brilliant post-industrial hemisphere. He was the Inheritint and therefore, he was important without bounds.

'Chonn: Roadtrip For' by Jack Burston

The pavement between a couple of counties sometimes has to move indirectly in order to move directly from one county to another, and it’s identical to my insistence on using the phrase “I [fecking] mean” in my writing and in my speaking (which unfortu-nate-ly) I do more than my writing, which is a joke -- as generally there is zero folksins about and there is literonz nothing better to do than write.

Not packed; 6am departure, and so now it’s fit to type for a bit, whereas the copious gaps, and five minute periods that Easter and inactivity have provided are not used up. Again, in any gap: nothing superior in spurring me on than writing.

The pavement, as I said is not necessarily direct, it can be [au natur] but it’s simply a sweet trek when you have to take the first right, second left, first right, Little Chef, steal Little Chef lollies, bail, left, right, [and I mean bail] some sort of comedy wheel spin and we would be talking. That is it: with the wheel spin we bail and then with a glove box full of lollies we cross the border.

What a quiet lay-by, we chill in the tree/field alley and by about four we head back (indirectly) between counties. Road trips provide a bit of Timothy time to write in. I'll miss them when they are sold out, square and gone.

Fledge: Thanks to Murray Somerville for the last picture.

e. cvi.

Thanks go to me Dad for these.

d. viii

'Little Churchill' by Jack Burston

Ken le drill: click for the story for a bigger, easier to read version.

'Fixed Pizznell - Ep. iii.' by Jack Burston

Page 1

Page 2

Click on each picture to see greater, greater, greater detail.

'Sec In The Coffee' by Jack Burston

Again kids, click on the picture itself to see it in a friendlier, better quality. If my hand writing cannot be read, ask, and I shall type it up like a rock climbing secretary.

Haul i.

Bit of a haul from an Oxfam; their prices have increased recently, but let's not be sticklers, a haul is a haul.

'Fixed Pizznell - Ep. ii.' by Jack Burston and c. vi/c. vii

a. i.

'Fixed Pizznell - Ep. i.' by Jack Burston

Click on the picture and you will be able to view it in better quality. Thank you.

'Dialogue in the Car' by Jack Burston

“She should’ve spoken to me first. It can’t just be ‘turn up, involve me and speak’, moral support. Fucking rain, ten minutes, ten fucking minutes, would’ve got back in time to get the washing in.”

“It’s nothing to do with us. If they want to put him away they will. She won’t be happy with that.”

“God’s sake, ten more minutes.”

“That’s the chocolate cake, think about it, we should’ve just taken it home.”

“The thing is, she lets Lee get inside her head. I mean, she’s lost the point of putting him away, she should’ve spoken to me first.”

“Put the washing in the dryer though I reckon?”

Extract from 'Vexations' by Jack Burston

ii.

Sal stood at the kitchen table; the bars that guarded the window were seconded by the surrounding red brick wall of the courtyard. The black bars angled out at the top in order to create room for the opening of the two sections at the top. On the table, four bags of pre-made salad stood — Sal began to sort through the first bag. The purple and green leaves were crispy here and she emptied the packet in to the large wooden bowl to her left. The second bag was entirely green, the wetness of the leaves indicated that they had being rinsed, ready for use and then placed back in the bag, this batch was binned. The Third bag bore the plain whiteness of a budget piece of shopping, the phrase that qualified the dip in quality was forgettable but the predominant presence of sharp, iceberg lettuce allowed the entire contents in to the bowl. The fourth bag was verging on exotic; Sal regretted this and balanced this bag on top of the second.
Sal took some olive oil and some dressing and covered the salad. She tossed and turned the green lunch until she was satisfied. She made use of the newly bought tongs that sat on the side of the room and created two heaps of leaf on two white plates. The first plate was dressed with mayonnaise and pepper, the second with a pinch of salt and a dollop of tomato sauce.
Sal’s fluffy skirt dragged up her thigh, the numbing effect of her woollen tights prevented her from noticing the itch of the coarse material along her leg. Sec delved in to the salad, salt and ketchup. Sal lent forward and consequently covered up the thigh that the rising skirt had revealed.
“Sec, why do you still require this ketchup/salt combination with everything?”
“Well, it’s a reminder. Like a drum beat without a swinging tune.”
“You said before.”
“But, seriously, the ketchup/salt is the drum beat of a meal such as fish and chips. The kind of meal I used to eat often. More accurately the ketchup is the kick drum and the salt is the snare. And sometimes it’s pleasant to remember what I used to eat, the nice things, the fried and the filled, the puffed, etcetera. So, as a reminder I leave the ketchup and salt in my meals.” Sal turned back to her salad and dipped a leaf into the yellowing mayonnaise.

'Remnant Man Meant (just a jog down the street)' by Jack Burston

The man meant for me to be quiet. Technically the morning was at an end and the exam was near finished. He nodded as I rested the previously tapped pencil on the table. His moustache spread along his lip all the way to his irritant sideburns. I, the Man Remnant, found his manner appealing, but his orders and disregard for my rhythmic soul unstoppable-disgusting. The moustache encouraged the whiskers in his ears and nose to grow until they met, and I, the Man Remnant though that maybe they would soon. Fire up the noose and reach for the afternoon, the exam is done!
I sauntered out of the exam hall and reached the top of the road. The collapsing buildings of the street kept me alert and I progressed with attitude and enthusiastic arrogance in to the main road, crossing and continuing. The afternoon bell was sounding.
I, the Man Remnant came through town with the flannel of a flaneur and the modesty of the morning that had passed, this all in spite of the growing confidence that burst out of the previously tapped pencil.
I furiously licked at the remaining elements of my just bought ice lolly, confident in its coldness and ecstatic that I could walk and lick. The flannel was drawn across my brow and I skipped to the headphone provided tunes of the Razor Lichten Collective. Saluting the window cleaners, I progressed still further. I, the Man Remnant had begun to build the foundations of a movement upon the remnants of the last years. Stasis was my enemy and I was armed with the power of the neo post generation. All behind me and confident in the scenes of our music and the verses of our novels; clothes defined my movement, they didn’t restrict unless I wanted them to. Sweet brilliance in the independent labels of the highest man and the proper use of the second hand. I, the Man Remnant burned through the afternoon until I crossed the road again.
I couldn’t believe it as I saw the man, the tramp, the man reduced to syrup. He was being trampled on by a group of friends from my course and the surrounding crowd, they simply walked across him. I empowered myself to drag him to his feet. His clouded eye gave away an instant memory of my Uncle in Wiltshire. I, the Man Remnant became immersed in a bit of quiet. At his feet he was intimidating and to his sides came a morbid three. From this he built a quartet. He himself was bedraggled, but with newly cut hair and a grasp of a sharpened capo in his hand. The three were holding the same capo. A chase began as I tripped through the day. I was shocked that they chased so quickly after I had helped the first so adequately from the filth with my Paddington Bear coat. The reverse was so. So, I reversed quickly as I could. But I found myself parallel with the canal. I, the Man Remnant was threatened thoroughly. I bounded along said canal, shaking up my pointed boots and barely worn antique satchel. The quartet split somehow and appeared two behind, two in front. I, the Man Remnant felt the pencil snap as they threw me to the wall.
I awoke in the smallest of building sites close to the canal. I was faced with remnants of foundations built from solid platinum. I had overalls on and my poking boots were now steel toe capped boots. The overalls carried the symbol of the billed mammal, the gruesome platypus.
The quartet emerged, cleaner and wearing similar overalls. Each overall was individual in colour and shape but they were drawn together by their communal cut. Their shoulders carried triple capo emblems. They ordered me in to the platinum foundations with a pick axe, I took up and began to realise the coldness of the firm metal pillars that formed the base of the foundations. I, the Man, gradually made dents in the metal, beyond what I thought possible almost.
I worked persistently in this post, at these posts for six months, morning after morning, with little force or little slavery. The sparks that flew from the platinum gradually, strangely burnt away the lyrical tattoo on my forearm.
After six months of work and porta-cabin sleep the quartet emerged all together for the first time since I had arrived. They dragged me out of the barely changed foundations and in to the porta-cabin. On one table there was a sharpened capo and a pair of capo badges. On another table were pointed boots and lights and razors. I was asked to choose a table.
I chose the capo table.
I walked down the street and ignored the window cleaners. I carried my overalls in one bag and my capo in my pocket. My shoes were simple and I, the man, had destroyed all the platinum remnants that I could. In my right hand I carried a letter bearing the platypus and capo symbols, it read:

Dear Man,

Gather three and form a quartet. Then sharpen your capos and lie in wait for the man, remnant like you once were. He is named Post-Mod Ernie.

Yours

The Artist, The Illustrator, The Musician and The Actor.

Extract from 'Robet Sterdam' by Jack Burston

Hovering, Robert finished his snack and wiped the excess food from his hands and mouth. He sat in the fully metallic chair that was screwed in to the ground—the chair faced the front door of Robert’s apartment and the television that sat a metre in front of him displayed a figure. The number related to the number of people that were inside the building at the moment he looked. Currently, there were 389. The number would increase and decrease sporadically. Occasionally there would be a sharp increase for a dinner party or for the monthly orgy that Clarence threw. The exact number of inhabitants in the building lay between 360 and 380. He had rented this apartment for just over a month and since finding the television he had decided that the number of tenants must be between these figures. But Robert did not know the exact number of tenants.