Orbit - Tuary (A406n)

This porous compass, this pot marked black headed dermis. The outer layer of dead flaky conurbation, crumbling off the surface of the hyper-dense. A suburban mask of protein and glue, ageing and dying as rapidly as skin, this membrane a cellular construction of semis and terracing, holding the organs of power in a stasis of satisfied need. This edifier of the laws of the concentric, the steely distant belt of the mid distance aging us another notch on the bed post of temporal existence, the new boundary as London crumbles through the old one.
The tiny circular vertices spinning human matter proportionally in the centre, proving the psychic moulding of a fluxing epicentre, modifying human and therefore material behaviours.
This spore city shooting parasitic tendrils across the fabric England, this stellar urbanity whisping galaxies adrift orbiting its burning hulk. The yapping industrial yaw of Park Royal guzzling and vomiting simultaneously the ephemera of transient productivity, bulking the core, drawing in, as if a cist, the towns unhappily caught in its tentacle grip. Unavoidable gravity crushing them against the surface. The mass consumption of protein, the melding of an urban biomass fractured from the normalities of nature, reared on the sophisms of masculinity and denial, sciences dehumanising the feminine, the spiritual under the flag of modernity.
This ring road.

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