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Tuesday 24th September, 2013

In Egypt's sandy silence, all alone,
Stands a gigantic Leg, which far off throws
The only shadow that the Desert knows:--
"I am great OZYMANDIAS, AKA ZA" saith the stone,
"The King of Kings; this mighty City shows
"The wonders of my hand."-- The City's gone,--
Nought but the Leg remaining to disclose
The site of this forgotten Babylon.

We wonder,-and some Hunter may express
Wonder like ours, when thro' the wilderness
Where ZA once stood, holding the Wolf in chace,
He meets some fragment huge, and stops to guess
What powerful but unrecorded race
Once dwelt in that annihilated place.

Horace Smith 1817 (slightly edited)

What fur has fluffed, what feathers furled since we last looked in on ZA...?

Are the mighty ZA arcologies pounding still or are they lifeless, steamless, reduced to ozymandian ruin in a desert of suburban decay?

No timeless tick of mandrelator, no eclodatuned acoustareel, no steady beat from the singing lady stokers giant engines. No coded clue to the living in the chakra voids of the HR Qi-Gong Bender. Lost, the Lamson Ball interdepartmental communications railway, the helpless Hollerith, jaquards strewn and a solitary indicator cactus, part ungreased, fallen in the box seat of the seized and laughterless PR AmPIG

Is the babbling brook of Dollis a wasteland wadi? The rushing Brent now shallow, stagnant?

The glittershadow of a single fairground Carp un-run below the Leg of Mutton, doomed to age amongst the putrid puddles of the once tumbling Clitterhouse.

Do red eyed Rudd and brimming Bream slowly fin beyond the dry marshes of Neasden? Ever waiting for a glisto-lust water warrior to wave the RA BA rods of ZA and still their weeping?

What of the pretty Pikeling or charming Chub, where are the See Pools dancing Dacelets?

Desiccated scales from the soft snug salmon sofas drift, iridescent, Brownian, beneath the stained glass of the Marauder Casters Memorial Kaleidoscopic Cupola.

Is it over in the world of ZA?

Or do those silent motes swirl in the sour breath of a one eyed barman, amadou dry, insomniac, thinking.., thinking.., ever buffing?

Are those distant sounds the deep, deep, mambo beats of Moo Moo Mulligans Bongo Babes and the sweet serenades of Wild Willie Gun the Gahooner Crooner heard over the cocktail crash in the Middle Aged Matrons Bunga Bunga Pole Pit of Peelers on the High Road ?

What is that subtle scent ?

A brew of smoke and accidental doctrinal insurrection from the twin ZA Bankside Bakelisers put at spin by the innocent. Bootless, nymph naked, sleep happy in their cherry cosset deep in the Clitterhouse woods.

It is night.

Awake, aslumber, everything is dream...

...beneath the Gigantic Leg of ZA.


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