23 April 2012
In a thousand years time they'll look at this urinal, excavated from ash rock in a cave devoid of the ancient smell of piss. They can stand and gawk, enjoying cool respite from the tourist season heat. A young son will be shown remains of where people used to relieve themselves outside of Soho's brothels and bars, here in the remains of a passé Moroccan restaurant: This is where they went to the toilet. They didn't even know.
If I'm here at the time - some inopportune moment - I'll be caught with my dick out, preserved like a medieval casting mold. God knows what that'll do for my life expectancy. Hopefully I'll provide some anthropologists with a few cheques, rather than not matter at all. Maybe they'll find my notebook encased in blistered leather. Maybe it'll rot like all else, gradually returning to the dirt.
Fuck you anyway, Pompeii. I'll take a slash regardless of historians. Let them make a cast iron figure of me for the gift shop. Let me be something gaudy instead of something bland. Let me be extinct along with dodos, Betamax and Martians. I hope iPods confuse them. They won't. Ears'll be a sex organ by then. Maybe smoking will be cool again.
All our friends will be dead. If we're lucky then our remains will be displayed in alarmed cases inside the granite-black walls of a Chinese museum; exported for political boon. Like the Jersey boys doing Somalia. Like bits of dead prostitutes sold to Iran.
This is where they had to pee. Don't get sentimental. Everybody has to go.
J. x
A Pre Apocalyptic Monologue • Opuss № I