Prosaic Minds

A Room

2011-08-29T04:36:00.003+01:00

Though there was no means of keeping time in the room, he could almost feel the hours trickle by as he watched the door. Each moment that passed struck a blow to his confidence, driving into him the lingering fear that he was alone, that no one was going to come and explain it all to him. Time accumulated and merged, solidifying into one solid past.

His stomach begin to groan. He had no idea when his last meal had been, how long he had lain in the bed sleeping and the realisation that he was hungry only served to intensify the pangs. Roused by his hunger, he began to sniff at the air, scenting the smell of cooking meat wafting.

The smell was sweet and rich, filling his lungs and, as he savoured its texture. His mouth begin to salivate. The room echoed with the sound of his stomach groaning as it gurgled unpleasantly.
Blowing from the shadows on the cold breath came the scent of food and, as he inhaled, his stomach churned painfully in response. The smell was intoxicating, his head filled with images of meat and bread, tables of rich, comfort food offering themselves up to him. The smell drove him on.

He climbed out of the bed, pulling the sheet off and dressing himself in the thin cotton. He staggered out of the room and into the corridor. As his feet crossed onto the white, smooth floor, he slipped. His arm reached out instinctively to grab the wall to steady himself.

He grasped at the soft, rotten plaster. His fingers sank into the damp fetid flesh of the wall as he stabilised himself. He pulled his hand back sharply, the damp, cold moisture of the walls suck at his hand, reluctant to let him go. He wiped his palm across the white sheet he wore like a toga. He ignored the yellow, oily stain that was left, content instead to focus on the looming darkness.

He stood in a puddle of flickering sepia light. He could see nothing in the shadows that surrounded him.

#1

2011-06-12T01:55:00.001+01:00

Shit stabbed faces spewing angry vomit. Monstrous tongues lapping over frayed lips that smack vile lies. Laughing. Evil voices stabbing and touching, inappropriately. Eyes dead as cold stone embedded in faces that make my stomach sick. Words pours like diarrhoea, dribbling down flaccid chins. Arms flapping wildly, chicken headed freaks clicking. Futile. Soundlessly, it erupts, sickening slapping sounds as it torrents over grey flesh like sewage. As I watch, mouths seem to transform, pigs anus. Tight sphincters continue to spew brown, fetid custard, dripping. Words bubble noisily from the puckered lips, farting methane rich into the world. Empty skulls rot with reclaimed waste reprocessing. Little chocolate faces reform on barren skulls as I wander through rich streets of bone. Tight alleys in which whores fuck. Coca cola cane inserted violently into bleeding anus. Boys cry while raped. Dollars exchanged for favours. On the main street troops parade impotently, ejaculating lead into the faces of crying baby girls, pink frilly skirts and pigtails stained claret. On stage in back street bars fish headed stripped dance, singing faeces song. Slapping anal lips smeared rouge over orange face. Giant hoops dangle from cheap Mickey Mouse ears layered over scaly head. Dropping straps, flaccid tits flap, yeasty breeze runs through. Creamy stench wafts and sniffed. Vile suits fapping and erect in seconds, ejaculating into martini glasses for lunch. PR executives lap gratefully and murmur in satisfaction. Delicious

In corners, open arses suck greedily on the cocks of passing vacuum salesman, amazing carpet cleaning potential. Removes parasites in seconds. Erupting, the ring rips and pours yellow cheesy feast. Ticks crawls over pale milkly, chocolate flesh to feast on the rich bacteria soup. Salty protoctista. Tiny mandibles rip at smooth skin, exposing raw, bleeding sinew. Fingers inserted between fibrous muscle, like overly ripe cunt fruit, masturbation. On commission, small change is passed from sweaty palms to buy small glass filled vials. Government approved hallucinogens, injected intravenously to bring on euphoria. Dancing apes dance in pretty lights singing pop classics.

In the smoke outside, goliath walks and crushes Muslim woman. Husbands clap, they were poor house wives. Christians complain. Prejudice. I laugh. Evil little shit stained fuckers can’t see the shit that drips freely off their chins. Sweet corn, BBQ flavour. Tiny orphans run and gather it in refuse. Old polystyrene containers, burger grease still fragrant. Filling boxes with undigested vegetable matter. Useful roughage an nutrition. After dinner they stand and stare into glass mausoleums at the well dressed plastic dolls that dance to tinny music that throbs from cheap speakers hidden in MDF walls. Dressed in shiny velvet. Cheap from corner shop discount stores. White stains show, luminescent in phosphorus lighting, past time of back rooms bum boy. They hunch and fuck over tins of socks. Tight black cottons numbers for men i grey suits with brief cases. Lubed up with left over anchovy juice from expensive sandwiches filled with avocado. Prawn in bland sauce.

Dribbling slick grease over black, necrotic lips putrid with infected shit. Laughing. Caking vicious propaganda over tiny dull ears. Driving channels into empty caverns. Awkward seat in cramped converted cattle carriers drive me. Over repetitive rails to the next. Dark viscous streets running like slow motion rivers from the doors of neon clubs. Drunken apes spilling onto the frozen liquid. Pants drop, skirts raised and thrusting. Watching piston inserted into moist holes desperate for spilled curled semen. Vaginal lips lapping gratefully for the attentions of the grunting shit stained oxygen graves. Futile repetitive thrusts spawning shit.

Bustling past, onto air conditioned grave, endless nylon opens into time. Like vortex, spinning into big bang. Futile free advertising filling all space, some conscious being controlling though. Puppet masters grinning at the marionette show. Submarine emerging into isles of flat lino, grey flesh of floors parting to reveal periscopes. Sailors dancing across the floors, pilling like sperm. Thousands of tiny seamen dancing merry jig. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. Jolly roger with eye patch and parrot. Cutlass robbing faux leather wallets for barren dollars. Buy HD TVs on widescreen LCD 1080i multi window future proof technology. On interest free credit. Only 15% APR. My soul shrivels and dies.

The Bone Tree

2011-02-24T22:12:00.001Z

On the lonely hill it sat, watching. The last bone tree, its leaves made of flesh. On each, written in the dead tongue, were the words of its song. When the wind blew, a cold breath that tore at the land, the leaves sang in harmony. A song of loss and suffering, the song of the world as it had been, the rattle of the bones shaking the stars from the sky. Each time it sang, they wept. They wept for what they had done, the crimes they had inflicted on each other. As they hung from the tree, ornaments of sinew and pain, the makers wept tears of blood that fell to the dead, barren soil and fed the tree. As the tree sang, it grew in torment and ferocity. On day, it knew, its bones would caress the sky and its makers would feed the oceans. The last of them flayed on it boughs, their debt paid.

Saturday Night At The Disco

2010-09-10T10:53:00.000+01:00

Fused to throne she sat. Her nervous systems conjoined her with the meat city, her body; rotting flesh stack clawing at an angry sun that cindered the surface, red and swollen. Her chamber chattered with wings casings and drone step, work like docility maintaining. She regarded them in silence, tongue black and shrivelled, vestigial.

The birth sac pulsed; her new organ still shimmering in glistened christening birth fluids, white and luminescent. Inside the eggs grew numerous and fat. They awaited the mating. Bald, pink and raw - a function of her larger self, chained and bound by purpose in flesh bondage and servitude - she salivated the prospect. Dreamed of semenal juices, strong and pungent, bitter fertility to fill gaping, lubricated orifices.

Wounds festered in partitions of endoderm, rotting. Breaths from the deep furnaces fought with sulphurous tenacity against putrid choke clouds, vile yellow stench. The old queen's youngest teemed in desperate bid to salvage. She knew futility and mourned, happy, content. The rational old self scream in resigned fury at her placation, forced matings and imprisonment in dying dust caverns.

Mutated flesh - legs merged and bloated to form the cavity, her ovaries grown prolific, industrial engines for hybrid emergence, distended vagina a pungent wound lustful for insemination, needful - demanded. Lost will conquered by a vanquished empire of instinctual genetic pirates, corrupting. Toothless mouth gurgled in hunger, the eunuch descended from above carrying the feed. She suckled willingly now, the changeling fluid fed by necrotic nipple, ulcerous and sour.

One appetite sated, she sang. A chorus erupted that reverberated and echoed, mirrored by the pale exhalations of her true body; mucosal membranes forcing air through gurgling chambers, damp gasps vomited. The soldiers came, commanded, mad rush to service the queen, trampling the weak and sick to thin slick film. Nutritional soup absorbed with shuddered delight. Mindless erections thrusting toward the future, they came on buzzing wings.

With shrills she welcomed and enticed, calling them to her, urging them. Humanity shrank in terror and disgust at the beast mind, hormonal potency savaging. Immobile she received the victor, the first. Entering her with barbed prick that tore new virginal flesh, crimson ecstasy, he bound her in all six limbs. Chitin abrasive, ridged and thick, unfeeling, pounding, she lost herself; screams of sadness and loathing and desire. Unfeeling and unthinking he rutted his queen, she remembered what love felt like and wept.

A second rode her face, choking and feeding, hooks tearing at the dead flesh of her tongue, gums bleeding as though gingervitic. She swallowed. The swarm formed bukkake circle and fucked air thick with pheromones and death, organs swollen and bayoneted. A Mexican wave of ejaculation - her throat and cervix coated first, a cloud erupting in downpour over her immobile form - she shuddered in climax, accepting the gift.

Their task fulfilled they left, a solemn funeral melody of vibrating wings sinking to silence. The air stank. Plugged by the gift of her suitor's still warm shaft, hooks embedded into sensitive walls. Her body cherished and stored in reflexive primal action, the last of her past willing it jettisoned. She felt the first fertilization, life blossoming with white agony. The laying orifice began to suppurate, splitting like a new born eye, the egg white pus a liquid pupil.

She would fill the chamber with young; it would make no difference. Bathed in the final passions of the dying star - the marvel that had tempted curiosity, allowed her taint - they would cook. She shone in the basking glow of birth as her abdomen now a bloated mass of flesh and fluid. As the first egg emerged, birthed in the ecstasy of submission and fulfilment, her birthing tract rippled with joy. She licked the last traces of the unions from her lips.

Late To The Party

2010-08-25T15:04:00.003+01:00

I didn't tell you, did I?

Not that you're listening, all that static and noise, but I thought of it today; I was reminded.

It's free, something at least, but probably worth less that you pay for it. Up to you to decide though really.

http://pseudopod.org/2010/07/09/pseudopod-202-eye-spy/

Down Here We All Come Smiling

2010-08-19T15:51:00.000+01:00

I'm waiting bleary eyed for a beam. Just one. A little thing to show and hold and warm me now I'm cold, wet, alone. Down here it's dark, their voices knives and greedy fingers greasy with blood and fat and rot. They stain me and it won't wash off, I've scrubbed until I bleed and all I do is cry. Is the sun still there? I'm sure I saw it years ago - or did I dream it? was it all painted in watercolours in picture books with unicorns? - when things were bright and good and kind, before the clouds and grey.

I'm hugging bottle close and supping infant like from jagged teat of broken glass. All I taste is blood. Even that is gone, useless now or empty, what does it matter? I'm drowning in their sea and breathing comes difficult with each waking; tidal limbs surging over me, nails digging through my skin to leave infected sores. Emaciated, I stink and shiver with fever sweats.

My neck and shoulder creak from staring too long up, the grey mass of hair/cloud/flesh/membrane that covers us rising vertigo, my stomach - empty and acidic, bubbling like witch's cauldron - heaving in time. I pray for cracks. Something else, outside, not this monotony chattering teeth and clammy skin wrapped in gray half light, unrelenting. They're all striving for the mountain, king of the hill, I'm dragged along and under, too tired to fight. I'm waiting for a beam. Just one. Please.

Not The Face, It's Empty

2010-07-19T12:58:00.003+01:00

I had dreams once, and hopes. They were eaten by a pack of marauding men in pin striped suits selling insurance and bits of metal and plastic; hopped up on bags of powdered greed to fire lusts and passions dead souls lack, snorted through dead children's fingers. They found me and laughed as I screamed for them to stop.

The bridge I was left on - cold, alone and naked - lined with intravenous needle nosed beetles that stabbed at me as I passed, self loathing dripping from hollow tips to burn black marks on my skin; too many legs grabbing at me, desperate to pull me close. Thicker needles under soft bellies lunge at my torso, throbbing as they seek to impregnate me, little eggs laid in the cavities of my body to hatch as I shop, devouring me from within.

I can't see the ends of my prison, the manic insects that cluster around me suffocating. To thick I can no longer move and to either side nests with neon fronting and signs declaring SALE: WE'LL TRADE YOU CONSUMABLES FOR YOUR HAPPINESS. There's no way off, I hear motor cycle hums as wings whip me and the laughter of the suits is back, this time with baseball bats.

Twenty Two, Ninety

2010-06-11T11:46:00.003+01:00

Slack jawed and drooling, fog horned larger haze. Watch and clap and cheer and boo tribal grunts, nationalism on show like foetid flaccid cocks. Ape men half formed - boys in toned large bodies grunting, lacking parts that define us beyond beasts, flattered and spoilt, fawned on like demi-gods for the sake of green, grown arrogant - strut primordial dance around pig skins and leer. Satsuma people in front rows with clothes more valuable than homes for most, vacant and gaping. They look good on the covers.

A spectacle and show to prevent thought, revert us to ancestral states of compliance. We'll buy sponsored brands and lavish favours on associates, hand over what we have and willingly chained to watch. We are cattle amused by pretty pictures. Pour faith and soul and heart and love into black pits that churn malevolent to spout choking smog. Lungs and minds filled with sedatives to bind us - complain and gossip, whine and bitch - we'll talk and pretend to think repeating lines from boxes. Ignore the parasitic growth that stain us, don't look to mind worms and squid kings, they ride invisible. Watch the man child run and stop.

There is no other option. Illusion of choice, you're in with us now so learn. Celebrate and take joy in shit, wallow and roll in handed down faecal matter; smear it over and lap, it's divine. There are no stars, no beauty, no love or hope. Not now. All we want and need is there, pay no attention to skeletal crying children working bloody fingered, its a bargain. We stopped aspiring, stopped wanting, reaching, hoping for something more. But we have football. Great trade. Who wants creation bliss when there are goals to watch? Passive pale fish men stink and bloat; steeped in rot.

In There

2010-05-20T10:43:00.000+01:00

Twisted dreams foretell of transformation. I dream of living, working and being mundane. Plain sad face like sun softened cheese runs slack; jowls and cheek. In this I see the future. No more words fitting for deaf ears, no face for blind eyes. What wind has caught me carries me on and into itself, emerging I am changed.

No blessings or baptisms, pain and sadness douse me and reform sombre moods to joy. Visions of truth that drip slow constant water torture rhythms into hollowed self. I no longer know, feel or think; I am. Through untold gates I pass in all directions, entering and leaving both. No paradox in being.

I remember laughing, eons ago in the dead places. Green to right and grey to left, legs bare; I was smaller, and happy. I have become too liquid, soft and sad, shifting in quiet solitude. Yellow doesn't suit her they say and I've forgotten what yellow was. I do not try to remember. Blow out the candle and sit a while, listen with me and be. I change, I do not know what or how or why or when or if. I do not know, and am blank.

Foreground

2010-05-11T13:47:00.001+01:00

I grow mute. I listen and hold tongue; even speaking I am truthfully silent. No one notices. Rarely anymore do I say words of content and when I do those are unnoticed. I wonder if I'm mad. Perhaps they are right and my perception is off, I've become lost.

I want to laugh or cry or stand up and leave; I can do none of these things. Instead I sit and watch blank faced - sometimes I smile and nod as though knowingly - listening with occasional interjections of nonsense that they seem to understand. I day dream of rope and dangling feet, piss and shit puddle beneath me as I swing.

I used to understand clearly, too much. Now it all grows grey and tired, thoughts and ideas expressed through smoke stained lined. Distant and old; me or possibly them, I do not know. I whisper no longer for return tickets and stop buttons. Lies to anaesthetise. Now I accept inevitable terrors as truth.

I am here, alone, in prisons of flesh and bone and blood and meat. I'd scream but I fear what I might say.

Blister Winds

2010-04-21T13:07:00.000+01:00

Let me fragment.

Thin sheets limit me and tightly bind thought. Trapped, I'm weeping soft ballads of loss and bitter regret. Shed tears and think of yourself. Mirror parodies laughing mock jawed and leather tongued. Words bubble and seethe, poison fanged to gnaw and devour will. Vacant faced hunters wrap tighter as I seek to scream.

Caught and trodden, mired in ruin and dust, what now? Thin slithers of next drift like end song from surrounds. Ways out and maze traps, dead ends with false gods and lies: sex and drugs and love and hope. Chains of mortal burden, founded deep in immaterial fictions; "it's not all that bad".

I admit. I don't know. Bless me, take me, stop this before I'm sick. Islands of half digested self in a sea of future bile. That way is meaningless, nihilism adsorption gifted power to the things that flit shadow predator forms in dreams. Feed yourself or fly, morph through fluids and gases and vacuums into all. No see, no do, no know, no you. Be me and all. Cast deep your nets and let you drift.

Fragment.

Conversion

2010-04-09T14:29:00.000+01:00

"They change you. Add meaning to your life and give you new priorities."
"You mean like parasitic mind words?"
"What? No, they just help you realise the important things in life."
"And those are?"
"Well: family; happiness; the little things."
"Family and the little things would be them right? Those 'little family members' that change the way you think."
"Yes, sort of. You know what I mean though."
"Sounds to me like a cult."
"What do you mean?"
"A cult: brainwashed cretins wandering around gormless in order to serve. Only you created your little god and called him Marcus."
"You're really quite strange. You know that right."
"Me? Ha! I'm not the one who's been infected by hormones and evolutionary routines in order to ensure procreation. You spawned so now you're expendable. Point served. Only thing you're good for is maybe making a few more and working as hard as you can to make sure those things survive until they can do it all over again."
"I'm going to leave now."
"Good, I'm sick of you breeders peddling your new religion. I'm not buying. Take those pamphlets somewhere else."
"Bye."
"Got to keep recruiting new members; misery loves company; biology has to be satisfied and the herd needs to keep spawning cattle."

"Dirty fucking breeders. Only good for biofuel."

---

"I'm going to die alone aren't I?"

2010-03-30T18:57:00.003+01:00

I have been busy recently. New words to birth; it goes well and is productive. Much left to do but she is pleasing. Too much so that I have neglected. Apologies.

I had a conversation with myself the other day I thought suitable. I will attempt to transcribe its likeness for you soon.

I don't miss you.

She Calls

2010-03-18T09:47:00.000Z

I dreamt - within a dream of slum housing and children armed with tooth like knifes, that climbed like spiders through pulled wide gaping double glazing and clattered violently against bolted doors while she slept oblivious beneath sheet above with only me to hold them - of the sea. The dark sea lapping over rounded pebbles that clicked with tidal rhythm to lick me. I remember cold salty kisses.

That dream inside my dream woke costal longings, the sound of choral waves conducted by jostling gulls on dunes. Something beneath shattered blue black skin calls me. Withered ancestral memory of ocean lives hunting silver slivers of cold meat, hairless bodies gasping volumes of atmosphere to dive and, with practised ease, propel through midnight. Once we were almost dolphins.

In remembrance I will travel and pay tribute. Swim out in bracing windswept foam and dive. Hold until lungs burn and ache and demand breath before erupting to inhale iodine tang, filling heart and soul with the dead that sublime from deeps under cold solar touch. I will give them flesh and body, warm blood. A beer and fish for dinner; I can dream.

A Birth

2010-03-11T11:31:00.000Z

Plan done, bones piled high. I'll craft a fleshwork coat with pretty sinew ribbon and create life. I'm nervous now, aware that first moment is precious, rehearsing repeatedly that initial touch. A ceremony, a beginning properly celebrated. Soon, I will fortify myself and go again to bathe, the dark blood river to take my mind and soul. I will return, eventually, different and changed, with child.

The Birth of Lekigoth.

Old Maids

2010-03-05T09:26:00.000Z

An element of snobbishness would have you believe that you, the current affairs literate, well read and educated, are better than the peroxide addled gigglers who banter on about who stands the greater chance of winning the most recent reality television sedative. You discuss politics and economics, digest sound bites and interviews from late night news bulletins, ruminate on the pre-packaged science (referenceless of course) that titillates. They prattle on about haircuts, sex scandals and how X was like so mean to that other one, Y, who's really cute but not their favourite. You're better, right?

Deluded little creature under rock, do you enjoy the puppet show? Distracted by gossip you miss the point entirely; they're satisfied at least with a job well done. No thought, repeat verbatim opinion masquerading as information, no critical analysis. It's easier that way, scandal after scandal, no real change required just another headline to replace the last, the media wheels keep churning and the world keeps spinning while you squabble. Outraged, you'll vent foamy mouthed or perhaps grinning with ironic cynicism (you're too cool right? Love the hair) as the strings are pulled and worlds tumble out effortless.

Switched off, I've made my vote and people call me crazy? Too bad that wall wasn't really bubbling and growing eyes, blinking the secrets of reality to me in Melusian Morse Code. I could really use a holiday.

Suits You

2010-03-01T16:37:00.002Z

How important is a name? A window through which a first glimpse our character, a form for protozoal thought within which we are bound by natural limitations, or a sound to attract our attention and to delineate consciousness? If words shape thought and ultimately the world, then names as words deserve the same due. A rose by any other name might smell as sweet but if perception would differentiate, then no longer are the two equal. Thus the names power revealed. What difference, after all, the world we perceive and the world as is. Are we not gods?

Consider then when next conspiring to birth a darling proseling, how first you christen. They are children and not simple things; living, breathing, real wonders that work outside of you. How then do you define those miracles of imagination if they are to function as you intend and not derail that remarkable plan? Prudence is suggested, and patience, think carefully on reaction and interpretation as well as life, their evolution within the confines of that name. It's no simple matter of labelling a dead specimen mounted upon glass slides. This, when done right, is not easy to undo. They grow possessive and hence I suggest you measure twice. A good fit is a must.

Swing

2010-02-23T14:32:00.000Z

Flesh dripping slackly from runny cheeks, hung over stoic bone. Bloated tongue protruding from cracked, purple lips to gesture like oral phallus rudely at maidens. Blind man, crow lunch robbed that sight long ago, staring with empty sockets at the living, jealous.

If not for that leash, coarse fibre collar that stole breath and pulse, could join and walk. Limbs animated by some hideous will in search of that spark lost, can dance and pluck. Broken, yellowed nails - brittle and weak with decay, peeled back from tender, maggoty flesh beneath - useful tools with which to dig. In sinew, flesh and vein it lurks. The scent a reminder of a taste of life that is, alone, enough to make flaking mouth remember salivation.

Too bad. Flail and sway, it does no good. That rope is made to hold such horrible desire. Twelve feet high for two dozen and one, long enough for that flame to flicker and die. A crossroad burial will see to the rest. Go hungry puppet man. Enjoy the view.

None

2010-02-16T14:42:00.001Z

I wonder what point genre? An expansive universe of lies exists to be draped upon your visions and already you box and package. A structure, of course, but so rigidly defined from conception is surely foolish. The only possible explanations are short comings and profit, to surrender to the first makes you a coward, the second a fraud.

Bare your soul free of shackles, run naked in the dreamscape of your fictions, bow not to the mindless worms who toil to bind the vision that possesses you. Let mortals argue how best to categorise your words and sully not your tongue with their vomitous sales patter. Freedom beckons from the mouth that speaks never its name and sings only of the dead.

I've seen the world and deny it. Its treasons and treachery are the garbs of broken shells, eyes dead and lifeless. Let them squirm and bicker, I'm untouchable now, a member of the greater swarm who glimpses shards of heaven that pierce and rupture the nature of my organic heart. Those horizonless wastelands, bone trees and engines of chitin, flowering spore trees that drip resin like rain, honey scented and toxic. Bathe me and I surrender, there is little point in genre.

Due

2010-02-12T11:46:00.001Z

Due. Due five minutes ago, ten and fifteen. Always due. Watching lines of white eyes rumble past in splashing procession, patient. Soon, it must be. I'm collapsing probabilities in my head. Watching appearing, flickering glares, sliding ominously around the corner far down stream. Next one, certainly, so long now that it has to be. Next one, next one, next one. With every disappointing fall and stammer of my ever optimistic heart I know it's closer. Waiting for that dull, throbbing, over sized number home. It's closer, every heartbeat, every ticking aching, numbing second closer. Logic. It will appear, must, sun rise and sun set, death and tax. Patience.

Cold and wet ache claws deeper into blue-white flesh. Neon glare bleaches texture. Shadows flitting past in downward streaks of cold. None look and see, rush and run and drive and sing and dance and swear. Odd spectre like ghouls drift past weavingly, faces side/under lit by glowing worms gripped in hand and gears clunk and wheels spin. Huddled I'm ignoring them, got to watch. Soon, my gut is whispering to me of its impending arrival. Huffing, puffing into palms, quickly damp with breath. Rub, rub, rub and huff. It's a summoning ritual, magick of a modern kind. Summon dragons to whisk you home through winter's dark and dead embrace. Commuting Shamans.

Joy, it's summers dawn, sweet smell of bacon on a Sunday and a loves first kiss. That glow, familiar even distant. Lantern like above the roofs of stumbling, grumbling trolls. A beacon. Magick works see kids. Spells you learn on cold, dark corners when time slows and grinds, the world cracks and you learn. Bidding silent farewells to the lurking bodies that shuffle, all blind and stubborn and dead inside, no magick in their dull, flat faces. Like burnt flapjacks, bitter and poisonous. Good riddance. Closer now, probabilities fulfilled and poetry, universal satisfaction and it all keeps spinning inevitable, except.

Wrong number. Perhaps it is the end of the world?

Sometimes I Vomit

2010-02-01T20:11:00.004Z

What power language?

I watched Pontypool last night, a vision of language as something powerful and vulnerable wrapped up as horror (the film is sublime by the way, you're missing something special if you don't watch it). I've often been amazed at the power of language and unnerved by the apparent ignorance (wilful it seems at times) people display toward it. Magic is real and in language.

We shape perception with language. We define our realities and form thought with language. A richer language is a greater, fuller world. Clearly it contains power, some understand that all too well, limit the vocabulary of the people and you castrate them. Newspeak was true, a vision of a future now where adolescents have a working vocabulary of 800 words.

We can shape consciousness with language, perhaps it's not entirely one way. Imagine language as a seventeenth dimension, hyper real fluidic space bending. It's all in the words and application. What worlds we've missed because we lack the constructs on which to frame them? Imagine then how you are shaped by the absorption and expulsion of words. Imagine then how you shape those minds and worlds that exist in free form primordial thought clusters.

A mantle of god hood with boots of clay, shame not all word worlds are the paradise we might hope.

Ending

2010-01-25T20:57:00.002Z

I finished the first on Saturday. Long first not short first obviously. I figured I'd be something different. Just marginally over a year to finish, fits and spurts mostly, no continuous long slog, more time off than on, but just marginally over a year. I thought I might feel satisfied, perhaps happy or filled with a sense of achievement. Nothing like that, just... empty really. It's not done. I don't think it can ever be done, ultimately flawed in concept and execution would be my description. I learnt more than I thought possible though through the completion, which only amplifies the sense of failure it elicits. Growth is its own reward apparently, in some senses true, perhaps.

I'm pleased to be missing the constant demand it had, the overhanging sense of laziness and doom I suffered at any time I procrastinated. I grew to hate the thing, it repulsed me at times and still does now, though to a lesser degree. I'm glad, relieved, but not happy. It represents something though. A commitment to completion and largess, the fuller creation of dreams that I have constantly calling, demanding. The queue is already pulling me back, though I'm quite willing now. Eager to apply certain inflections and patterns I wish to germinate, seedlings from the just finished. In that sense at least I am thankful, tools and toys I can now appreciate.

There is of course now the question of the true finishing. I am not sure I have the energy, certainly not now, too many things to play with now. I can't deny those surely or return now, I would only fuel the hate. I'd like to think that at some point it would be a thing I could proud of, though currently that's doubtful. I question if I could ever respond that way to them, any of them. I think it would require a stagnation, a knowledge that I cannot grow more. Currently I feel the need to expand, each finish fuel to growth. I'm not sure the directions are responsible or even healthy all the time, but I want to try.

Undo, Redo

2010-01-21T09:47:00.002Z

Stifled words end up rotting and poisoning my unconscious. Sickness brought about by tongue holding and introversion that only ends in spin down dreams ticking clock work worms that burrow and feast. I’ve shared thoughts and wonders and lives and joys and hates and passions but only ever seemed to get vacant wide eyed stares of horror, like I’m speaking garbled nonsense, bestial screams and demonic songs that corrupt minds. Am I? You know the words you say are absolutely yours and not twisted by perception into coherent shapes and forms that obviously you understand but everyone else thinks is the first sign of madness, an indicator that any moment you’ll be whipping out that Stanley knife you always carry around with you for just such an occasion and start cutting. No, you don’t.

That’s not the point though, it’s the delusions and poison and sickness. Too many unsaid, deleted, moderated, edited thoughts fester and spoil until something has to spill and here it is, vomit, putrid and vile, rotten and high from the blood I swallow, oozing from bitten tongues (I have more than one you see, several, all different, some for eating, some for licking, but most for the voices and languages I have that babble to each other while I’m sleeping. I taped them once and woke up six days later, naked and bleeding on a beach on the south coast, shaved and covered in mucus). What good are words I kill and stab and maim? Urges to hide and covet them overwhelm me, protect myself from needles and blank looks of concern or others from the creeping infective tendrils that wrap around my sounds to penetrate and devour? Got to let out sometime they whisper, and they’re right.

Another I

2010-01-17T14:10:00.003Z

But... I know the but, they are deliberate and I'm aware of them. It worries me that, fully aware of the but I continue. Is it I or they who are wrong, or perhaps a missing of intents. The positive I ignore of course, who wouldn't, who wants reassurance of style, pacing and gravity when there is a but. If the but were a blank, a missing piece I'd failed to note, I might take some joy from the illumination. That is not the case. It is because or in spite of the buts I continue, the demand for it insistent and ignorant of other's buts.

There is always a but, they cannot be avoided. I see others with more but suitable material embraced and wonder 'is it something particular to me? Is it lacking something else that makes the but acceptable or less noxious?' The buts vary, since each is designed to test and fulfil different tastes and boundaries, but still they seem the reason. Are words digestible and pleasant not enough, even when the buts seem so minor and readily tolerated, even appreciated, from others? What else is there? A matter of taste?

I doubt that, taste accounts for only so much. Though the exposure is limited, I need to dive deeper I acknowledge, yet each time this but is like a punch to the gut, a cold nausea followed by annoyance and doubt, I've had enough. Surely by now one appetite would deem the morsel palatable? At least I have another but to work on. Yet another but to be aware of, though to be honest, I'll ignore that when she calls. It is what it is and the image and rhythm is the thing. That drug is all that matters, beyond that need I'd appreciate recognition and acceptance, but it's increasingly meaningless and dreams increasingly futile. The word is the thing.