This Un Is

Yes, Gentle Apocalypse isn’t, now. This now long-abandoned site is decaying, falling apart: posts vanishing, unlovely blog-standard template… The orchestra to be, however, makes all this look like a triangle. If you would like to hear trumpet-parp of my upcoming reality-reversing comic-philosophical dictionary / trampoline, or get your hands all over issue one of the insane comic I am writing and illustrating (with the help of some highly skilled and, behold, world-renowned artists), or would like bits of your inner self to vibrate, pop and drift all over the place to the tune of various leporine graphic novels, heart-rending love stories, inner-fire-fanning pamphlets, acoustic-jupiter adverts, subversive posters, wanton fairy tales, recognisably insane cartoons and a shuddering, monstrous feeling that everything is connecting up…

Wormwood St, EC2*, 01:30

*The financial and business district (aka desert ‘city’) of London.

Do and Die

Improvised Theatre, Unself and The Meaning of Words

In improvised theatre you walk onto an empty stage and create a story. When it works selves dissolve like sugar cubes and reality roars in a-flowing. Often though, it doesn’t work; fear, violence, hope, addiction, imagination and excessive planning or theorising—all the second impressions of self in charge—get in the way. The scene crumbles, and everyone scrambles around, clenched and desperate. 

How to Brainwash Your Children

Parents hoping to raise, educate and manage confused, atomised and emotional automatons seem to face a daunting task - but this is a complete illusion. Effectively brainwashing the world requires hardly any conscious effort at all. In fact raising your awareness of what you’re doing will actually hamper your work. We therefore recommend you don’t pay much attention what follows.

God’s Bouncer

There’s a hard, bald meathead on the gates of Eden.
The first time you go for a run after years of inactivity you feel like you are going to die after five minutes. If you’ve lived your life on low-nutrient sugar-rich junk, you’re more than likely to judge a fresh high-fibre meal as lacking in excitement, difficult somehow. And if you are a city dweller in your bones and swan off for a few months to live off grid in the middle of nowhere, it soon becomes, after the initial novelty wears off, hideously boring.

These kind of difficulties are well known. Less well known is the reason: God’s Bouncer.

Also known as The Guardian at the Gate and Dr Cold Turkey, God’s Bouncer stands between the self-led life and the life-led self. He is there, in weed form, when you make a move from monoculture to permaculture. He’s there as the background irritation of ‘don’t like’ if you turn from rapid-chatter, murder beats to symphonies of mood or thought. If you fast, if you stop working, or if you radically change any entrenched self-gratifying habit, relationship, or social class; he’s there, either telling you its pointless, stupid, impossible or slapping you round the suede with his existential meathooks.

Goodbye Hiroshima Lemons

T shirts here in Japan say things like

Left, right, forward, backward. Move arm + leg rhythmical and all will be invited to the ‘you won’t miss’ too good!

I read this on a tin of biscuits which someone gave me as a present for the blossom season:

This is the door into the world filled with a great many flowers. Here, all the flowers are different from others as there is nobody but has the same face. The flowers repeat themselves to be out vividly, gone beautifully and re-born one after another. The world full of bright energy will certainly give one feel a comfort for a while.

Lightning

Last night, looking over Kurashiki valley from our eighth floor living room, we saw a thunderstorm like no other. The lightning, rather than forking downwards, flew across the sky - mad cracked webs of white fire that flared across the purple horizon, strafing the valley before finally, in a deafening blinding strike, bursting a tree under our balcony into pink flames.

The Paradoxical Essence Men

Ram-Man: Essence Men Trading Card No. 5
The Paradoxical Essence Men are a superhero group appearing in Kamichan comics #86 - 88.

Ram-man Super-power: indestructible head and laser-firing horns.* He can’t fly but he can jump from tall buildings, just as long as he lands on his head. He can also summon millions of sheep, from miles around, to help him escape from empty warehouses surrounded by the cops. His weakness is that he can only solve problems that require charging full pelt into a wall.**

The Sempstress When super-heros gain their super powers they also gain superb tailoring skills. The sempstress is alone in only being able to stitch, knit and crochet, but at lightening speed and with any material. She can, depending on the super-villian she’s facing, instantly knock out titanium gloves, electric corsets, custard socks or trousers made of clouds.

Planet X

When relationships end, ex-lovers all fly off to live together on a beautiful planet with all your lost biros, peanuts, pieces of paper with important information, beloved shirts, misplaced umbrellas and scarves left in restaurants. All the perfect fruit you’ve ever eaten, that made your eyes pop open - the complex, fragrant lemons, the watermelons that were sweet right down to the rind, the buttery mangoes that dribbled jungle gold - it all grows there, on that planet. The vague, freakish, sweet, wrenching flashes of street-corners, picture books, silvery winter sunshine and the smell of rain as you once ran, happy, in a tropical morning - everything good that is lost forever to you lives there still, on a beautiful planet, far away, which, yesterday, collided with a huge asteroid and exploded. Gone forever.

Okay?

The Burning Toast & The Should Bully

The word conscience has two basic meanings. The first, most common use, designates the priest or parent-code installed in the head; designed, more or less, to prevent you from doing anything that threatens The Way Things Are. This kind of ‘code-conscience’ (also occasionally called ‘care’, ‘respect’, ‘maturity’ and ‘responsibility’) is a kind of instinctive morality, a cultural bouncer at the doors of liberation and a brake upon spontaneity, individuality and free discernment. Code-conscience is the should bully that keeps the rich rich, the poor poor, the stupid stupid and the modern artist in pay.

Love Letters

The stars are sad the city can’t see them. The pencil trembles with anticipation as it is poised over the paper. Crumbles of mud tumble with giggles as they fall from bashed boots. The sun loves to shine on politicians. Lashes are fame for a snowflake. Lightbulbs unshaded are ashamed. Keys are tragic lovers. Curtains always part reluctantly. Unlit candles sullenly withstand. Beds are favourite uncles, pillows their patient friends. Forks writhe and sigh upon your lips. And all things, when ignored, pray to the space between them; for men do take the cups they lift for granted. So when you are held by distracted hands, follow their example, and then you’ll too know that life loves you sometimes secretly.

From the Gentle Apocalypse Emporium

Do you suffer from arhythmia, spaz-realease-anxiety or creaky psyche-lag in the arms of a dance partner? In dance do you perform simple, mechanical, jerklettes, large, predictable or out-of-time grandstanders, refuse in your headstrong flesh to follow or lead with technical brilliance but subtle flairless grip? Or perhaps you love to dance but are tied to someone who does not and are tired of playing table-tennis in a deep-sea diving suit or hauling a corpse stapled to a mattress up the spiral stair-case of your enthusiasms? If so, why not try Dr Pong’s Yawp Serum; an intramuscular boogie-juice arse injection of concentrated hooplas, crunching squat-glides, electro-stills, mobile rolls, michegan-synchros, high-park-gaylords, wet-fleckerals, rubber-ochos, highland body-melts, net-casters, chick-spacks, wang-scythes, bubble-rubs and glorious bronto-yawps. Just one monstrous pump and a whole new landscape of vibe-delight is yours.