The weeks constrict, pythons around my ribs, under which the turbid valves of the heart pump on with blind certainty. Dreams of flapping wings outside windows. A nest of telephone calls, letters, deposits, routines in which I can submerge peacefully and integrate with process, a limbed machine conferring golden fries, cigarettes, tins of ointment. Money…
Science and Capitalism
Terence Kealey falls out of love with market myths at New Scientist and is descended upon by hordes of screaming libertarians (AKA self justifying plutocrats)
Never mind the butter, here’s the ex-Pistols
I am an agriculturalist, I am an anarchist . . . dairy me.