fisher king's wasteland

the universe will end not with a bang, but with a buffering animation because your god is an impatient god, and sometimes, even god needs an excuse to go and play outside.

it's the daisy chain of legend, that becomes myth, becomes history, becomes fact the gears of the robotic pen keep grinding, tracing lines in cursive over the parchment that has been pulped and liquified and electrified into the buzz of nothing: we etch worlds into radio waves that echo silently in dead space, simultaneously existing and not existing, changing everything and nothing. we are everything. we are nothing. we buzz and beep and whirr and click, stretching and snapping to grasp meaning with unclosable hands. we swat each other like flies, hit-and-miss, and inexplicably, we take joy in deep connections while rejecting our biology.

the song rushes forth from the swollen lips of large helga, its piercing and booming borne from the depths of her plump bosom and stretching out to the very peaks and troughs of the range, the sound bridging and collapsing the intervening space into a single, ice-crystallized moment. a thought is all it would take for her, lungs and all, to snap herself across this bridge to any point she chooses, with only a slightly nauseating sensation of being twisted inside out in the process. she holds the moment steady, the deeply resonating "oooooh" seeming to shiver through the cold morning air before crackling to a halt, unused.

i sit in a chair in front of the mirror as i'm shorn of the last strands grown out of my mind signifiers of words tumbling down to the floor: uniform, mess hall, discipline, obedience, responsibility, ambassador, pride, power, authority, hierarchy, bureaucracy, weapons, ballistics, strategy, efficiency, the contradiction of the value of life, allies, enemies, medical, negligence, spite, cowardice, malice, appreciation, rations, squads, lines, flags, reports, briefing, debriefing, pins, stripes, tags, bags, toys, and the seconds, minutes, hours and weeks of a life on pause while looking out the turret's window. all empty certificates shaken down and out, itching and scratching, but the shower afterwards blasts my scalp with the cool sense of the weight of history... unburdened.

everything begins, and ends, with an orgy. everything is better with lesbians. the funny thing about birds and trees is that if the birds aren't getting it on then the trees don't get to reproduce. even piloting a giant disguised in fur through virtual bowels is not enough to dampen sexual urges. when an author loves a subject very much, he pulls out his pen and begins to tentatively stroke the pages with it until he believes that he is performing satisfactorily. he then dives in, eventually, sometimes fairly quickly, sometimes after only a few words if he's a poet, covering the pages with his ink in what he hopes is an experience as enjoyable and climactic for the reader as it is for him. sometimes there is no climax, which can be a frustrating experience for everyone - although there are always some people who appear to enjoy it anyway. sometimes, if lots of people are enjoying an author who is taking his time, he will die before finishing and that will leave a bitter t

the eye haunts me not by itself but by what it represents watching you watching me watched by me and flickering, whites showing staring sideways and i can only see nothing but you seeing nothing surrounded by the inky blackness of blind celluloid of the past worlds of universes ago when we made order out of chaos at show and tell [ inspiration ]

the four grim men in dark suits and ties step smartly into the tiny back room, sliding into place around the green felt table with a deck of cards in its center, circled by the light of the lamp hanging low above it. a petit, dark haired lady gracefully walks in after them carrying a tray holding four neat colour-coded stacks, and sets one before each of the men before leaving the room, the door closing and only the grinding of a worn deadbolt piercing the silence. the first man picks up the cards, and time slows to a crawl as he shuffles, the cards slowly arcing through the air, gliding into place as the deck is slowly rolled, gleaming in the dim light, and cut slowly before the process is repeated. each card is flicked to one of the men, the room and the faces of the men spinning around it as it floats through the stale air until it lands with a gentle, fatal thump. then time turns back to full pace, then faster, then faster as the game begins, the four figures stationary even

the sugar melts around my tongue washing the underside with oblivion before accumulating enough wave to glide smoothly down my throat and then i'm back for more.