By Lucy Hilton


Blue Babies

I see a generation of



Weakened and dreaming

And seasick

from unrelenting undulation,

Caught between destruction and distraction.

Conditioned by the screen

and watched over by machines

of loving grace.

Connected but never seeing.

Never Being.

Swimming in dubious data pools,

Transmedia, transcending.

Their new age appetite

demanding instant enlightenment.

Too bored and blundering to boycott

Apple is their Clairvoyant

Demonstrating the presence of spirits in the room.

Notable charlatans.

Ringing bells, levitating objects, performing the rites of passage

Coming of age in the technological rocket ship

and moving freely through unutterable margins


Infiltrating the co-operations,

Sidestepping the protocol.

Power to the hijacker,



Happy slapper.

The twinkle of his phantom eye

Stills behind their webcams.

No where is unseen

Though the pilgrim screams.

He can’t escape

the omnipresent

Heaven sent

Turtle necked

Absent Father we always dreamt of.

You must draw the line

There comes a point

Between truth seeking and obsession.

Answers can lead to utopia

or hysteria.

So make a choice

to live

In permeable membranes,

spindly fringes of the hive

Work a nine to five

Or reach the limits of what you can cognize.

How can the artist survive?

Eccentrics receive only a free bus pass in this culture

Aloof and exempt

Mercurial vultures.

Over saturated and shattered

By broken promises of salvation

And arts council cuts due to inflation

The pool of inner peace,

Your true nature is a

Watery end.

The future is transcendence.




Return to mother

When comes the day to fade away,

When this life in Babylon is done,

Don’t fear decay, you couldn’t possibly stay

Mother will reunite us to the One.

We’re so out of whack

we can’t see that

This earth’s just another sack

And vaginas are portholes to other astral planes.

Or as Freud explains

a black hole to the unknown.

Before I was born I was


When we sleep we return back

And recharge in the black.

And in the dreams of the unmanifested

These babies know exactly which path they’re choosing

Which passage to slide towards grooving

Because the opening appears

as earth rises after thousands of years

over an purple arid desert

Where crowds are waiting for the concert.

The horizon beyond words massive

And coldly arid

Crazy alive yet static.

And moody blue cyclones

Dance across Davy Jones

Falling out great clouds of glitter sand

Pointing to the promised land.

Its time for the birthing,

The unmoved mover is surfing.

Singing ancient charms

Sliding over waving arms

Exulted and paraded

Worshiped and elated.

Like canals scattered with leaves

pushed by the breeze

Its time to believe

Time for the big squeeze.

Blast off and touch down in another level, the journey so long and traumatic we forgot it all and are wiped clean

Wrung out

Compressed and asphyxiated

And spat out

Onto the shores of a new world.