ether-real identity

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 power of yodelling

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.

cutting out traumatic memories

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.

sex education as done by the wondering workshop

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 taste of disappointment; it has become fairly common, when this happens, for someone on the receiving end to attempt to reanimate the author and flog his remains into completing the ritual. this is usually a very bad idea, and should be made illegal.

some authors will write to just about anybody willing to pay for text, regardless of subject, and we call these authors "whores".

both whores and regular writers are usually not possessed of the means to have text without approaching a publisher, who for a significant cut of the profits will advance cash and dictate the ways in which their subject expresses itself.

as virginia woolf said: an author really should have a room of his own in order to perform.

the biggest issue with text is the danger of getting a Textually Transmitted Derangement; there is no known cure, and the only known form of prevention is abstinence. be selective in your reading!

no need to worry about performing textual acts in front of the wondering workshop: we're always happy to show you how to do it better.

roving

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]

downstairs, in the back

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 as the table spins round and around behind them, cards landing and folding, chips rising and falling.

and then time turns back to its regular grace. the stacks are almost evenly low, except for the first man: he gathers his cards, and as he registers the two aces peaking up at him the light begins to flicker, and a low vibration begins to shake the table and chairs.

there is a moment in which nobody dares to breath, as the vibrations turn more and more violent and then the men are forced out of their chairs, the cards and chips leaping about as the light jangles on its parabolic arc, lighting the action in fits and starts. and just as suddenly as it began, it ends. the lamp slowly rocks itself still, the men right their chairs and take their seats without any regard to the chips and the cards strewn about the table and floor.

"whyyy have you sssummoned me?" hissed a whispered voice, seeming to come from the center of the table. "whaaat wasss my crime?" the voice said again, now sounding faintly louder as an unholy mist began to form in the lamp's light, rippling in circles and slowly forming patterns, faces, then one face that spoke in regular tones: "you have woken me, my lords, and i hear and obey".

taste, don't swallow

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.