Tilt Republic. Johannesburg. New York. Cape Town. London.


Indifference is the key here, the dangerous thing too, ‘how not giving a shit can fuck everything up’ should be our grand national subtext. Perhaps written on the media magnet that is number one’s scrote sack, which is a national symbol for obvious reasons, us bastards.


It does fuck everything up, completely, we need to understand that collectively individually first, sure, but together we’d fix the fuck out of shit.

Yes we would, there’s no denying that, everyone feels it, some grand bundled together gesture against the shitness, but there’s that media drive I need to plug into. Hours of world class distraction far more soothing than actually helping anyone, what am I, some kind of hero? I want something delicious.

How to properly deal with indifference, I don’t know, I don’t think we could just talk about it. A kind of group therapy wankfest where yet more nothing gets accompanied by the guilt released by confession. A leveler, to straighten out the overly emotional consumer.

It’s the source of much personal relaxation, my indifference accompanies me on every orgiastic excursion, a kind of helper. My favourite vice. Why bugger it with crises?

Yet we must give a shit, that’s the key, that’s what the missing ingredient is, if we somehow allowed ourselves to act as if we cared then change would occur. But wait, no one does, so what’s the point. This sounds like martyr territory.

Give some fucking change to the poor, help them out, or empower some people properly every now and then, is that where the difference lies? Each one employ one? Decaf latte please.

But we won’t do that, justified in our own tiredness, having slogged at the wheel for so long. The trenches, the mines, the 9 to 5er noise that clogs up empathy. My best excuse at the very least, being tired sucks.

Could there be empathy and a life filled with responsibility and routine and strange obsessions? Perhaps.

I want to document this general decline in humanity, or perhaps fulfillment. It wouldn’t be difficult, the occasional personal diary entry would do. Cue self loathing.

So good at disguising it too, this filth has some seriously sophisticated defense mechanisms. Hear the tone of the term ‘bleeding heart liberal’ when it’s said. This club so fiendish and secret it’s members don’t even know they’re in it. Heavy times for the human race lie ahead, surely. Every good intention turned into an event, with podiums and cameras and applause, pre-ordered. Anticipate the back slap, in three, two, one… aaah, the satisfaction of giving.

This idea that our liberators aren’t after true liberation, but rather the very luxuries they’re not, or weren’t, privy to. That’s the heinous haunting flip side, this uncertainty of intent, some very dangerous ground for hope to tread on.

That the ideology of liberation was the best tool for the job, the job of getting paid, no one should doubt, but what happens to those still fucked? Now that the middle class is demographically levelling, do the poor stay fucked? It seems like no one of consequence is asking. Sweet excess is, like it always has been, the point of the exercise. Once gained, agendas change. Their core that is, veneers shouldn’t, that’s just bad PR, 101 shit. Lie, go ahead, everyone does.

Those banging on the loudest about nationalization and land reform seem to be doing so because it’s there only revenue stream. The chauffeured pinko rhetoric, these unionised pyramid schemes and all the while we’re matching action with ideals. Sizing up receipts, pointing fingers and feeling our way to some heavy realities: money talks, fuck the poor.

always time for that

always time for that