There are fringes to this art. It may not always give you what you want, it may be hard to fathom, it may be exquisitely weird or confusingly beautiful. The only predictability is that it will not be predictable. Punk never went quietly. Slip on a bin bag, pop open those safety pins and prepare for a bit of perilous reading.
‘A magic lantern of blue light played out a crisp, bass rhythm that dumped information in disconnected chunks. There was a silver car on its side. A strip of metal had been stretched and curled around one of the traffic lights like a scrawny pole dancer. Men and women shouted instructions, their words cut out and silhouetted into anonymity. Across the street a fish tank of kebab seekers watching from their glass fronted TV set. And everything was caught in the white light of abduction.’
Taken from, The hour of shadows © Jac Forsyth 2016