Matt Copson, Reynard By Numbers (feat. Williams Olufemi), 2013. Coloured pen on paper

Matt Copson Blog Post

5 February 2015

Matt Copson, Reynard By Numbers (feat. Williams Olufemi), 2013. Coloured pen on paper

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Matt Copson Blog Post

Dilettantes/Dickheads!

The parade continues and I’m as Sick Of This Shit as you are. 10 hour shifts waving from atop the float, dressed up like a pound shop Buzz Lightyear…dreaming of Minimum Wage, longing for Maximum Impact. Yet my ne’er-ending tale of woe merely elicits a vague pang of sympathy from a wandering sissyboy or two. Maybe the strings aren’t sentimental enough? The tuning fork, blunt.

Oooh, the orchestra’s getting warmed up…all flatulence and gore.

FEEL my plight or one day you’ll forget how. DEFEND me now because one day I’ll be gone. I’m a living exercise in exercising your rights! I’m a beacon of the very values of your civilisation! You wanted frictionless self-expression? W-w-well you got it. Right here, bro. I’ve been saying it on loop for five months, but if you don’t like the audiobook then here goes:

DEATH TO: PHILANTHROPISTS, PARTY PLANNERS, CIVIL ENGINEERS, ENGINEERS, PROFESSIONALS, AMATEURS, ARCHITECTS, ARGENTINEANS, THE ALTRUISIC, THE TEETOTAL, THE COCKTEASERS, THE DISAPPOINTED, EMOS, GENTILES, CANDLE STICK MAKERS, SEXY NURSES, NURSES, THE POLICE, THE MEDIUM-BUILD CAUCASIAN MALES, BELIEVERS, BELIEBERS, UNBELIEVERS, BABIES.*

I entered this talent show with a noble aim: MORALISE THE MASSES but the masses misread the message. What more can I do? I’ve…run…out…of…metaphors.

So I’m leaving…going far, far away from this Island of Cold-hearted Apathy. Pah! I’m done with this world, I’m done with this prison of fur and bone and I’m done with time and relativity. I’m going to take my soul for a test-drive to the Andromeda Galaxy- I hear it’s warm this time of the year.

Reynard’s head explodes with such force that his individual organs fly off in alternate directions, bursting through woodwork, brick and ozone layer. All that is left on stage is fur, momentarily held aloft. As the follicles finish their dance with gravity, they appear to speak

mmmmmm….the sweet sound of silence…all constructs cease to be…no new, no contemporary…just the void and me…just…just…my thoughts…be gone! be gone, foul angst! Gahahhhhh what’s the matter? What is all this dark, dark matter!?

REYNARD WILL RETURN IN ‘REYNARD’S FUNDAMENT’**

*unabridged, in height order
**www.trampsltd.com