PARAPHILIA TRASUMANAR

concrete neighbourhood bench covered with solid, well weathered, lumps of bubble-gum, Basquait cocks and misshaped swastikas- most of them ironically invoking peace.

On the side of houses in Nepal you find them both side by side- colourful giant cocks with balls and wings and ancient signs of peace that only ding-bats would confuse with Nazi emblems.

China is there now, denigrating everything once considered holy and eating everything that breathes. Dipping barbecued spare-rib girl babies in chocolate like they do ants.

They’ve made such a cock and balls of communism- the neo-fascist capitalist cunts.

My cock and balls ache. Is it a sign?

I’ve got a migraine in my testicles.

7 THE BENCH The unmade bench, even if signed by Tracy Emin, could not have got into the RA’s Summer Exhibition where predictability holds sway most years because of the stalwart dears who grip tight to the cheque-books. They are very much still purple rinses halfway up the arses of the St Ive’s School of discovering landscape in still-life and life in stilled landscapes and hybrids of the two.

To listen to these people you would think that originality had deserted the working classes completely.

There were painters groups among the hard working tin miners of Cornwall but they were never in the eye of the shaker maker glitteratti and, had they been, they would have been dismissed as ‘primitives’, ‘naives’.

None of those cunts would have said no to having a Lowry or two stashed away in their lofts.

Yes. Signed by Tracy Emin RA, the riveting bench might have helped her win a Turner Prize. [Kids had by local tradition lost their virginity on it at dusk] Filling a large glass crucifix with your own piss could work the same magic for your trophy entries on LinkedIn. Now there’s a thing- Tracy come full circle from the avant garde to a Royal Academician with little more than the drawing skills of an ape obsessed with body fluids. Menstrual discharge a constant favourite. Only women bleed. Women are the niggers of the world. Those old chestnuts. She had all the advantages of a proper education. Higher.

I read about her alleged conversion or epiphany from a traditional wild child to something way more tragic and infinitely more profitable- she had her own bonfire night in the small back garden of her East End flat, burned all her prior paintings in a smoke-free zone. The rebel.

Now. Had she really seen the light or caught the bug of filthy lucre from Damien Hirst and his 156