this is the monologue which opened the gybe! live show at the royal festival hall, london, on april 3rd 2000.
there is a devil in this world
and no angel will save us
our relations are sickened and damaged as this upside down world
they're turning our neighbourhoods into disneylands
they're building more prisons and doubling their patrols
at the same time miss celine dion sings love songs while our cities burn
in these times, when everything is denied us
anything is possible
but everyday stubborn clumsy beautiful ideas rot on the withering vine
all dreams fall down
failure leads to irony,
and irony smothers us with all the pastel colours of the newest retail superstores
we call for an end to this state of affairs
long live a little bit of autonomy
long live all quiet roof easels
a sort of culture can be built here
all sorts of things can happen
when and if we finally begin to refuse
we dedicate tonight's performance to quiet refusals
loud refusals and sad refusals
we dedicate it to the imminent market collapse
we dedicate it to carpenters
waitresses and drug addicts
we dedicate it to secretaries, alcoholics and schizophrenics
we dedicate it to the boys kissing boys
girls kissing girls
girls kissing boys
and everything in between
we dedicate it to anxiety attacks, hangovers, worried depression
and all the other necessary by-products of trying to live free
we dedicate it to any endeavour who's ultimate unreasonable goal is autonomy
self-determination or joy
we dedicate it to every prisoner in the world
emma lazarus – the new colossus
(engraved in the foot of the statue of liberty)
not like the brazen giant of greek fame
with conquering limbs astride from land to land
here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
a mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
mother of exiles. from her beacon-hand
glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
the air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
with silent lips. "give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me:
i lift my lamp beside the golden door."