Drone (June)

Shoegaze was a rock form. Guitarists with lank hair produced drone for hours. It was the drone of engines, the unquestioned moan groan of freeways. Abbottabad woke to helicopters in the night. Locals thought, oh just another drone. They’re endless. Until whatever happened finished off Osama Bin Liner. This June the Prime Minister and his phone friends at the Drones Club ordered (loaned?) six surveillance objects at cool billions, so they can spy on cool billions. It never ends. Drones, over every air space, film before, during and after, as the whole world’s locals submit unwillingly to constant low-level intrusion.