by Faizal Nor Izham
It’s barely two months after the inauguration of President Donald Trump, and things are already starting to look worryingly apocalyptic.
Where do we begin? Shortly after he was instated, one of his first moves resembled an environmental assault, by approving the final permit for the Dakota Access pipeline.Then the promise of building the Mexican wall. The ‘Muslim ban’ came next. And finally, fanning the flames of war with Iran.Continue Reading
by Mike Vinti
Content warning: mentions racism, rape
Well, that’s it folks, it’s official. Donald Trump is the Republican nominee and one step closer to wiping out all sentient life on earth, sorry I mean one step closer the US presidency. It’s been a pretty terrifying week watching the Republican National Convention, even on this side of the Atlantic, and the hate levels are only set to rise as the human whoopee cushion begins his flatulent rampage towards the Whitehouse. Now, it’s been clear for sometime that the Republicans were going to have a cloud of methane with a wig floating on top for their nominee, however all the pomp and plagiarism (looking at you Melania) has got us thinking about what music should play in a presidential election, particularly one with such apocalyptic overtones.Continue Reading
by Jake Reynolds
The following poem includes 44 chopped-up book titles of novels that have won the Man Booker Prize. This poem comes after Marlon James won the prize last week with his brutal and cacophonous novel
A Brief History of Seven Killings.
It is quite something. I remember the days of children
dreaming of spending their inheritance on books
now waiting patiently, in that English way, for nothing
to happen, staring blindly at the ghosts that besiege
the moon late at night, push it, give marching orders
and last warnings. Those small assassins send troubles
to elected people, young and old, gathering them as books
often do, from bodies, sacred fleshy remains, sea-wood
chewed offshore. The history dividing them: no matter.
for every hunger pang, famished child, books.
by Jack Brindelli
It is Valentine’s week – apparently that’s a thing now – a time of saccharine sweetness, hollow gestures, and empty consumerism in place of romance. In-keeping with the seasonal spirit, then, I want to talk to you today about hearts that long ceased to beat; about a festering horde of blank-faced ghouls, hungering to sink their teeth into human flesh. No, not the populace of shag-app Tinder. Today I am talking about actual zombies.
The undead have always possessed a special place in my own heart – sating more than a simple blood-lust in my own cinematic tastes. Zombies often shamble above and beyond the call of duty, creeping and clawing their way into socio-political territory rarely visited by the supernatural silver-screen. They often act as crude agents of social commentary – and sometimes even of justice. The reanimated corpses who so often fill our post-apocalyptic screens aren’t really a thing to be ‘feared’ by us as such; they are a cultural representation of us. Zombies are the fictional embodiment of the dominant section of society’s fear of a mobilisation of the filthy, impoverished masses.
As Robert Kirkman’s famous comic series (and subsequent televisual smash hit) so often reiterates, “We are the walking dead.”Continue Reading