Mad TParty NeoVictorian Coat
But we love the oiliness of London skies; love the way light slithers on the surface of industrial cloud, running from shadow with nowhere to hide, to be swallowed by the hungry mouth of the gaslit evening. We, the spinners of the cogs of dystopia, savage grease between the gears of art. We overthrow the factory of consciousness by means of beautiful entropy, reveling in the paradox between the practical and the imaginable. We are the Lad.
Contrary to the honeyed words of gentlemen, this Age of Empire is a pestilence upon every continent and soul, through colonization manifest or implied. Rich men from stone buildings wade blindly through the penniless on their way to the opera, at leisure after a day spent plotting wars across the seas; and though these gentlemen are excellent at imposing a world order, they are equally adept at colonizing the women who maintain their homes. All the while their attention is turned outwards, and all the while we plot from within. Discontent with the complex machinations of the imperialist state, we build a system of co-operation and autonomy. Fed up with the hunger about us, we glean and tax the rich. Tired of playing master or servant, we work only as friends and lovers. And when approached by the newspapers, how they look at us queerly when we tell them with open hearts, “Death to the Empire! No longer will we cower; we are all nobility! Your colonization of our bodies and hearts is an act of war!"
