The Diagonikals stick it to London!

Every bourgeois infantry-wo/man toils to leave a mark on the indifferent symbolic order. Something: a tag, a portrait, a button, a smudge, a scratch in the dirt that will remember our name; a little dusty urn bearing our label on the interminable shelves of meaning. Warhol’s “15 minutes of fame” are one wretched attempt to overcome the fated submission; there are other ways, from having a child (the urn carrying your name, genes and desires) to carving your name on a tree. We, for example, lift our leg, piss on a fence and take a photo of the drying stain. These insignificant events display our narcissistic hunger for recognition. The crumb trail that tries to lead us “home” starts with London coz, by the queen’s anal beard, who doesn’t want to leave a mark on London? We have prowled mostly around Hammersmith, sticking ours on whatever we could.