Monday, February 19, 2018

Friday, February 16, 2018

Bus Stop

Zdzisław Beksiński

Amphyll stands in the lee of the dune, not quite deep enough to shield him completely from the sand-wind that hisses against this visor adding microscopic scratches to the already microscopically scratched surface; scratches that will become more apparent with age.
The Carbon Absorption Towers that litter the city’s boundary glow and crackle as their Capacathodes gather negative energy in quantities sufficient to satisfy municipal needs.
Amphyll vapes the hashish he bought just an hour ago from the factory on Via Orologi, and he is gently entwined in the perfume; the taste of its mystery, green and ancient.
In three days they will know whether the seed has taken root; the Moebius Timer will kick the packet into the face of Admin’s security, (the coding of which was written by The CoOp itself) and all kinds of fluctuations will be inflicted on the norm.
Amphyll wonders if they will find it this time.
His peace is shattered by the roar of the Leviptron’s sub-atomic maw.
He takes a footpad and is whished up into the body of the vehicle, passengers eying him suspiciously; as passengers do.
The info-holo hangs “Gate 339 - Next Stop: Pharma’s Market”

Tales for an attention deficit world

Monday, February 12, 2018

The Other Window

The Bus ~ Paul Kirchner

When he looked through the window
For the thousandth time
He saw a black horse fighting for its life

In a barbed wire fence
Fatally tangled
The more it struggled
The more it was strangled

He turned away
There was nothing he could do
The other window
Had a nicer view
~ Wire The Other Window 1979

Friday, February 09, 2018

Ghosts in the Wood

Sunset (Medusa) ~ Eugène Berman 1945

Through mask and filter he inhales the scent of timber coming from where the geometricised tree meat is stacked behind razor security for utilisation by the construction machines, and his chest is constricted by an inexplicable band of loss; breathless and wordless as the cultural vacuum that created him.
Among the smell of ozone and burnt plastics, the metal-clad clatter of industry, he takes the final essence of a forest as a personal gift, and since there is no other human flesh within a three hundred-kilometre radius, we should perhaps forgive him this vanity.
But the presumed dead trees will survive some time more in spirit. Their drying sap will continue to perfume the air with their message:
we will sleep under the ashes
we will outlive your folly

Tales for an attention deficit world

Wednesday, February 07, 2018

Down in the Bottom Where Your Demons Lie

On the face of it we're all just getting along with our shit: hamster wheel to home and out of our minds on booze and drugs (prescribed or otherwise); thumbing our ill-informed views on arsebook and twatter or bubble-pop games on the daily commute while being fist-fucked by corporate criminal conservative cunts (on both sides of the lie called democracy). Crimes committed in broad daylight while the night is left to sleep in the street, no media spotlight here other than to further the aims and gains of the corporate elite, the establishment or whatever you chose to call those cold-blooded lizards we choose as our owners, whose collar we wear, whose agenda we serve, whose arses we kiss - who own us lock stock and empty head.