Hoppy Stairs
2023
︎︎︎ “Hoppy Stairs” 2023
It's said, on weeknights in London, if you can hold your breathe long enough to swim into the procession of glassy eyed tourists on Tower Bridge and set your gaze towards the Shard, you can reach out over the bubbling stew of shit and catch the pulse of the last living limb of the city on the air.
"Don't feed the wildlife, but if you have to, they sell Nurishment at the offie."
Modern day Mummies, wrapped from the neck down in nylon straps, buckles and inner-tubes, crumpled over the grass and stone steps with wires and antenna leading from one velcro canvas pouch to another. Glowing spliff-ends reveal sets of watchful eyes in the gloom, surveying the park from behind steady hands, blackened by ash and grease. The warm streetlight plays with the restless leaves, casting a rippling pool of light over a tangle of spokes and smooth welds, each machine an aesthetic match with its fleshy partner. Scuffed stickers disguise sleek lacquered metal, the ships helm is a curling cockpit of filthy bartape worn to the shape of the captains hand position.
"Is the glass* half-full or half-empty?" "Dunno, but the other half is soaking my socks."
Tried and true, humanity curbed evolution once we figured out stairs. Like the Aztecs, the Romans, the Greeks and any other civilisation of old, give us some stairs, have an open bit of ground, and thats the evening sorted. We're just so fucking good at sitting around on them.
Music tugs on the air, from some deep-set bag or other, each more cavernous than the last. Everything in its right place, weed's being tucked into skin and plastic pints are getting knocked over, take your pick of the three conversations fighting over the air.
Meet the Houdini militia, the cyberpunk paper round, London's cyclist thugs, or as we prefer, the Fixed Pirates Crew.
"Don't feed the wildlife, but if you have to, they sell Nurishment at the offie."
Modern day Mummies, wrapped from the neck down in nylon straps, buckles and inner-tubes, crumpled over the grass and stone steps with wires and antenna leading from one velcro canvas pouch to another. Glowing spliff-ends reveal sets of watchful eyes in the gloom, surveying the park from behind steady hands, blackened by ash and grease. The warm streetlight plays with the restless leaves, casting a rippling pool of light over a tangle of spokes and smooth welds, each machine an aesthetic match with its fleshy partner. Scuffed stickers disguise sleek lacquered metal, the ships helm is a curling cockpit of filthy bartape worn to the shape of the captains hand position.
"Is the glass* half-full or half-empty?" "Dunno, but the other half is soaking my socks."
Tried and true, humanity curbed evolution once we figured out stairs. Like the Aztecs, the Romans, the Greeks and any other civilisation of old, give us some stairs, have an open bit of ground, and thats the evening sorted. We're just so fucking good at sitting around on them.
Music tugs on the air, from some deep-set bag or other, each more cavernous than the last. Everything in its right place, weed's being tucked into skin and plastic pints are getting knocked over, take your pick of the three conversations fighting over the air.
Meet the Houdini militia, the cyberpunk paper round, London's cyclist thugs, or as we prefer, the Fixed Pirates Crew.