So first I dream Sunday morning Kings-wood Brighton, of a large house which is of course also my head and the rooms are in flux and people I know or have thought about are living in them and I’m looking for a nice big room for my troubled son Ben in there but Freud has the one with all the stuffed animals he likes and Rob Stride the music room..I find a penthouse room for him and it’s ultra futuristic modern with a panoramic view of the city which is a blend of ones i’ve lived in London Copenhagen Paris etc..I tell him it extends into various times and spaces and wake up ALL LIT UP and enlightened and everything is clear and miraculous and beautiful and easy and I wonder why so many put there head in a spiked box (spoiler I soon slip back to the usual grunting grumpy animal cunt) I see the fear and damage as I fizz around the old haunts of St James street and give generously to the doorway spectres remnants on a slow fade..they will break your heart once the spiked box is temporarily removed of course they must.

The sub conscience is a vast ocean drip filled from our long super sponge life experiences naturally and we loll about trying to contain it in a small safe except-able skin container with handy clip on masks..of course we do..
Don’t be mean and reduced and sad reach for the lit up broad minded positive and happy part..think of the children how many more must be terrified and deformed by the scared sad nonsense we’re selling?
Your time is a fluke and privilege now fucking act like it.

I have nothing but profound love and sympathy for every last one of you, the shit you’ve had to fight through and put up with in this so near yet so far compromised wonky Disney paradise..the hollow competition the damaged souls pulling you down the shallow slave pen nonsense the greed etc..but hey we’ll keep on keeping on eh? and we’ll get there we’ll transcend the lowbrow selfish material nonsense and then we’ll RISE and live longer and happier and explore the multi verse.

Here’s a dark cartoon to alleviate your concrete booted trump through this bollix. the young of course don’t have to ponder the doom as it’s hopefully far off but me..with my broken heart and fifty twelve years auld I’d be a balloon headed fuck wit not to ponder on and then mock it. No worries go well and try to be bigger wider and deeper and remember to sympathise and empathise and don’t plasticise or patronise.

Brent Jackson (one of the greatest artists who ever lived)