08/09/04
Outside on the street, a few quarts low of alcohol, I am a jagged gear. Unable to plug myself into the machine, forcibly ejected from the insincere, conflicting cool.
Group sing-alongs inevitably rise, then wane with the consumption of mass quantities of alcoholic beverages. I am trapped, swung on a loose orbit around stellar spheres of saturated celebrations. Drinking, rocking, killing brain cells, and carving off our more sensitive sadness. Melancholy mashed and converted into raw party, putty for us to form an idol within our soul.
Gleaming, grinning, idle worship at the altar of our own universe spawned within. Moody blew in and knocked down the cardboard cutout action hero. Smoldering tough guy intensity flickers in the corner of the bar and I am reminded. Asskicker agony burns around me and I know that I will have to fight my way free.
Smothered in non-existence, I furiously fight for the surface. Thrashing and kicking my way into a brighter mindframe, my inner avatar is flailing, lost in silly phrases of copyrighted coolness.
"I am unique and lovely in a splendid sorority, adrift in the sadness of humanity."
Their wail is now heard as weak cries of affection effects, begging to be heard, by themselves as much as by you.
Engaged inane conversations with the bastard children of brighter tomorrows. Enlightened and unable to deal with their inherent divinity, these angelic monsters smash themselves to bits, feeling unworthy of godhood. A tribe of segregated and solitary lives, alone in their immense misfortune. Broken society, children gone amuck, chaotic slaves to a foreign falsehood.
I type away like a lunatic, fringe benefits from a loose sentence. Concepts that fry my mind, flirting with my inner ego. I hate the surface me, sweating out symmetrical similes.
Twin Diana appear beside me, guiding me through adversity. On my left I have the innocent goddess, drunk on the poisons of man. On the right is the cultured and wise hunter, walking tall with amazonian pride. Twin sparrows ushering in the end, signaling the transference.
SHOTS! Rings out cool NYC summer night. Guru and profits wring out the bar, oozing us out the doors of Lucy's and we land in another galaxy. Reality warbles rings around us like Saturn's spinning planetary debris.
Colliding and careening we find our flow and the night spins wildly on.
In the morn, my face flushed with hot blood, Feline pressure rests softly upon me. I awoke with a grin.
Summer Sunday night comes on unnoticed and the midnight oil burns. The ceiling is throbbing and pulsing to the beat, with teenage drunken sex fantasies bursting to life strategically placed. PseudoPsychoSexual satellite dish, suckling love from the cosmic teat, basking in the hot searing of the blind white light.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Monday, April 20, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 25 - Mustang Frankenstein
08/03/04
The camera swoops in a low slo-mo arc, swirling around us in a Bruckheimer heroic moment, power surging as the jet explodes behind us. The flames felt warm and comfortable behind me as Spider and I stood firm, rising to our full stature, secure in our manhood, and ready to rock.
Guitar solo cool roared through the air as my screaming fist connected with the man's chest. His suit seemed to curl and recoil, bracing the impact. A simulated smile flashed across his screen, a charade meant to goad me, mocking my inner monster. Thunderous hammerings of my titanium fists, fueled by the atomic engine fired up in my chest, and I began to crack through the stone. Power slammed down through my button-down denim destroyer legs, landing devastating karate kicks to his midsection. Dropping slow and dipping low, spinning gracefully sweeping out his legs, I shoot back up and forward kick his falling body thirty feet, embedding him in the far wall.
"Nicely done." Spider stepped out from behind me and I never felt such sidekick pride before in my life.
Mathematical resonances tingle in my brain as I wallow in the moment, absorbing the entire scene using Sherlock Science Logick mantras. Angles and trajectories mass up into raw feelings, converting to gut instincts. I know where the guns are, where the badguys stand, and just how far I can throw them. I slip out of the stasis with a sly grin. I swear my canines grew a fair amount as a growl subtly drifted from my lungs. Silver mane streaking down my spine as my feet tore free. Tearing across the scene I pounded into the wall flipping and bounding, free and wild roaring across this wild plain between me and my enemy.
There I was. Three years old, my face locked in the jaws of a beast. Fangs drank of my flesh and I was held in judgment by the aeons of canine. A ferocious fatality was imminent when mercy was handed down. I was spared, but marked. My eyes were lost in the power of eternal savage salvation. The ignoble beings that carried me away, cleaning my wounds, they were no longer my parents.
Homoerotic competition, physical fights forcing confrontation, tactile sensations from the icon of your hate, yourself. Your male serenity singing out for complex union. Flickering, simmering in the darkness, all that is corrupt in the young man stands at the far end of the stage, laughing maniacally, engorged in its power and deception. The flames of futile dominance cast long shadows that dance across the textures of the stones, patterns emerging from the spinning of the flames. The air carries the flow of the raging river, splashing towards the overconfident blaze.
The love of a father aches in us all. Sitting outside the pack, waiting to come back in. To be brought back in from the rain. And we don't need to look up from our shame to see the disgust splashed across our father's face.
It's not defiance, as we look up. It's concern that draws our eyes together. We will see his weaknesses, and we will accept his sickness. The half of you that was forged from his clay aligns with the interlocking connectivity that he carries in his fleshcell. Meta-scientific psychosis mental delusional schizophrenic symbiosis with your exiled manhood.
Cowboy howl as the soaring spinkick smashes the dummydaddydestroyerdrone Spider unleashed upon me. With delayed timing, a few second count, it's insides blew outwards spraying the sanitary far wall with motor oil, cigarettes and beer. Foreground shot as the drone smashes to the floor with me in the background, zoomed in to reveal pose 38, musclecar!mystique. My upper half purred like a streamlined screamer, candy apple red and lined with chrome. My legs pulsed and inched forward like an inpatient Mustang, milliseconds before the green.
Action slides south, leaving behind my polished body, punked out with kungfu!cool and rockstar!sneer.
The camera swoops in a low slo-mo arc, swirling around us in a Bruckheimer heroic moment, power surging as the jet explodes behind us. The flames felt warm and comfortable behind me as Spider and I stood firm, rising to our full stature, secure in our manhood, and ready to rock.
Guitar solo cool roared through the air as my screaming fist connected with the man's chest. His suit seemed to curl and recoil, bracing the impact. A simulated smile flashed across his screen, a charade meant to goad me, mocking my inner monster. Thunderous hammerings of my titanium fists, fueled by the atomic engine fired up in my chest, and I began to crack through the stone. Power slammed down through my button-down denim destroyer legs, landing devastating karate kicks to his midsection. Dropping slow and dipping low, spinning gracefully sweeping out his legs, I shoot back up and forward kick his falling body thirty feet, embedding him in the far wall.
"Nicely done." Spider stepped out from behind me and I never felt such sidekick pride before in my life.
Mathematical resonances tingle in my brain as I wallow in the moment, absorbing the entire scene using Sherlock Science Logick mantras. Angles and trajectories mass up into raw feelings, converting to gut instincts. I know where the guns are, where the badguys stand, and just how far I can throw them. I slip out of the stasis with a sly grin. I swear my canines grew a fair amount as a growl subtly drifted from my lungs. Silver mane streaking down my spine as my feet tore free. Tearing across the scene I pounded into the wall flipping and bounding, free and wild roaring across this wild plain between me and my enemy.
There I was. Three years old, my face locked in the jaws of a beast. Fangs drank of my flesh and I was held in judgment by the aeons of canine. A ferocious fatality was imminent when mercy was handed down. I was spared, but marked. My eyes were lost in the power of eternal savage salvation. The ignoble beings that carried me away, cleaning my wounds, they were no longer my parents.
Homoerotic competition, physical fights forcing confrontation, tactile sensations from the icon of your hate, yourself. Your male serenity singing out for complex union. Flickering, simmering in the darkness, all that is corrupt in the young man stands at the far end of the stage, laughing maniacally, engorged in its power and deception. The flames of futile dominance cast long shadows that dance across the textures of the stones, patterns emerging from the spinning of the flames. The air carries the flow of the raging river, splashing towards the overconfident blaze.
The love of a father aches in us all. Sitting outside the pack, waiting to come back in. To be brought back in from the rain. And we don't need to look up from our shame to see the disgust splashed across our father's face.
It's not defiance, as we look up. It's concern that draws our eyes together. We will see his weaknesses, and we will accept his sickness. The half of you that was forged from his clay aligns with the interlocking connectivity that he carries in his fleshcell. Meta-scientific psychosis mental delusional schizophrenic symbiosis with your exiled manhood.
Cowboy howl as the soaring spinkick smashes the dummydaddydestroyerdrone Spider unleashed upon me. With delayed timing, a few second count, it's insides blew outwards spraying the sanitary far wall with motor oil, cigarettes and beer. Foreground shot as the drone smashes to the floor with me in the background, zoomed in to reveal pose 38, musclecar!mystique. My upper half purred like a streamlined screamer, candy apple red and lined with chrome. My legs pulsed and inched forward like an inpatient Mustang, milliseconds before the green.
Action slides south, leaving behind my polished body, punked out with kungfu!cool and rockstar!sneer.
Monday, April 13, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 24 - quasar tripping
07/31/04
Like junkies tapping the vein of a happy childhood memory, linking today's minute pleasure with that innocent moment from long ago. A pedophiliac parade of our pathetic personality, unable to have the matured sublimed adult satisfaction we crave. Crack cocaine cut credit cards, shopping till we drop, exhausted, strung out and unsatisfied.
Mine is the story of man.
My kicks glowed with the smooth burn of crimson charcoal, tinged with the scorched black of spatial ashes. I initiated the cooldown mode and soon the sneakers slowed to a moody blue hue, crisp and crackling like ice. Laser slicing through the delirious daydream, I found myself standing at the starting line of a new race.
The memories of the skipped by day started catching up to me. Thousands of seconds transferred over translucent miles. Slowly at first, then with increasing fierce viscosity, the day flooded my mind.
Fighting through the teeming masses, strung together in tight bonds of insecure immaturity, I found myself in the villains' lair. Convention defied, I sought out the truth only to beaten low by the exploited smut of boyhood dreams. Muscle bound monstrosities and silicon shots rang out with the reverberations of celebrated tenacity.
Cramming backwards, more life fired through my neurons. A fellow agent, lost and babbling truth incarnate, found on the polar opposite end of my old life. He told me of his ways, his insights and life as he sees it true. I told him of the training I had received and delivered to him my initiate unlocking pamphlet. This must have been why I was brought here.
Here to low point, flipped across the country on fighter jet blues. Roaring, rocketing, spiraling through streams of cirrus salutations, Spider piloted the jet clear across the land. Stomach drops and pulse pounding plunges reduced my nervous system to putty. Missiles penetrated our enemies secure systems as they attempted to halt our progress. Explosive results reduced the rabble to rubble. The reach of their feeble old world forces fell far short of our liquid camouflaged, subsonic, bionic blastjet.
"Hold onto your lunch!" Spider lurched the controls sending our fragile flesh, temporarily encased in metal tubing, into a barrel roll diving down below, where the radar scans could not follow.
Spider had met me at the airport, standing at the far end of the security tunnel. Metal detectors and lazy security shoved me through. Yelled at and barked orders to remove my potentially dangerous equipment, I fumbled through, beeping only once. Beat red, feeling lame and abused, I made my way to Spider's side.
"Quit that shit. Don't impose their everyday tyranny on yourself. They have no true power over you save those several seconds of your life."
Like junkies tapping the vein of a happy childhood memory, linking today's minute pleasure with that innocent moment from long ago. A pedophiliac parade of our pathetic personality, unable to have the matured sublimed adult satisfaction we crave. Crack cocaine cut credit cards, shopping till we drop, exhausted, strung out and unsatisfied.
Mine is the story of man.
My kicks glowed with the smooth burn of crimson charcoal, tinged with the scorched black of spatial ashes. I initiated the cooldown mode and soon the sneakers slowed to a moody blue hue, crisp and crackling like ice. Laser slicing through the delirious daydream, I found myself standing at the starting line of a new race.
The memories of the skipped by day started catching up to me. Thousands of seconds transferred over translucent miles. Slowly at first, then with increasing fierce viscosity, the day flooded my mind.
Fighting through the teeming masses, strung together in tight bonds of insecure immaturity, I found myself in the villains' lair. Convention defied, I sought out the truth only to beaten low by the exploited smut of boyhood dreams. Muscle bound monstrosities and silicon shots rang out with the reverberations of celebrated tenacity.
Cramming backwards, more life fired through my neurons. A fellow agent, lost and babbling truth incarnate, found on the polar opposite end of my old life. He told me of his ways, his insights and life as he sees it true. I told him of the training I had received and delivered to him my initiate unlocking pamphlet. This must have been why I was brought here.
Here to low point, flipped across the country on fighter jet blues. Roaring, rocketing, spiraling through streams of cirrus salutations, Spider piloted the jet clear across the land. Stomach drops and pulse pounding plunges reduced my nervous system to putty. Missiles penetrated our enemies secure systems as they attempted to halt our progress. Explosive results reduced the rabble to rubble. The reach of their feeble old world forces fell far short of our liquid camouflaged, subsonic, bionic blastjet.
"Hold onto your lunch!" Spider lurched the controls sending our fragile flesh, temporarily encased in metal tubing, into a barrel roll diving down below, where the radar scans could not follow.
Spider had met me at the airport, standing at the far end of the security tunnel. Metal detectors and lazy security shoved me through. Yelled at and barked orders to remove my potentially dangerous equipment, I fumbled through, beeping only once. Beat red, feeling lame and abused, I made my way to Spider's side.
"Quit that shit. Don't impose their everyday tyranny on yourself. They have no true power over you save those several seconds of your life."
Monday, April 6, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 23 - Hail! the SpiderGod!
07/03/04
The futureburger awaits consumption as I sit down trying to figure it all out. The sun glows supernova summer and deep in my cave I scratch etchings in my virtual cavespace. Does this ring true? Can near non-existence read as adventure pulp?
Digital bloodshed flows before me, ringing with true sympathetic sadism. I'm throwing written jabs and hooks, swinging for the soft spots. Nothing seems to connect as I anticipate the dialogue flow that is to come. Characters? Not within this story. This story is the voice, omniscient and trustworthy, blessed with unified purpose.
"Where am I going with this?", I wondered as I looked up at Chow Yun Fat delivering a beat down. "I'm treading thin water here. No one's following this are they? Maybe we've grabbed a few lizard-brained types, snatching a high off the linguistic-lysurgic-acid that I distilled into minature bitmapped graphics that dance before your eyes as they read these words.
"These exact words."
DING-GONG.
Who the hell is this? I'm supposed to have the apartment to myself today and of course someone drops by. I get up to get the door and I see the intense shadow shape that surges my entire body with mental stimulation. A full body tickle up the nervous system peaking in a glorious blaze within our minds.
Who the fuck is this? The sun beat down hard like a solar death ray charring the edges off this monolithic figure. I pushed open the screen door as I began to fall to my knees.
"Hey there guy. Watch yourself."
His arm was there like it was carved from stone. It felt real and true, unwavering in its strength as I clung to it for support.
"Thanks."
"No problem. So how's it going?"
"Life? Okay I guess. I'm getting used to it."
"It's a bit easier coming from the other side. I don't envy you."
"Really? It's kind of hard to judge how I'm doing."
"Well, I'm liking the work so far."
"You've read it?"
"Absolutely. It's rough around the edges but there's some raw talent there."
"You think so? It's so hard for me to accept that. Not sure why. I guess I feel I don't deserve to be good at anything."
"You see man? That's the kind of crap I'm talking about. Nobody is going to like somebody with that frame of mind. It just poisons the whole package."
"I kind of see what you mean. It's like how I'm acting with other people is sort of who I am in the world, and who I am in the world is who I think I am. It's a symbiotic nature I guess. Wrestling that duality of thinking, between our role in society and our internal self, that's where we need the balance."
"You're on the right lines of thinking but that's also your problem."
"I don't follow."
"Thinking, and adding all that nonsense of what people are thinking and needing to know. It's all crap. That only defines you so far. The rest is standing up like a man, making a mark, carving out a path that is righteous and in following with your obsessive idealistic nature. You owe the world nothing less than greatest world you can imagine."
"It's hard to really say I get what you mean, to truly understand it. I guess that's why we need the story. The story in all its variations allow us to become initiated in all manner of schizophrenic states. Not only crossing cultural influence now, we mix in the mental states of the creators of our celebrity society. We long to bask in the sun of the temporarily divine rays of stardom."
"Making the mix this time around all the more potent. You've got access to the minds of a world of like-minded agents."
"Wow. This is just like one of those really heavy conversations I've always wanted to have."
"Well it couldn't be anyone else's."
"Jeez. I just realized I haven't even invited you in. C'mon in. Do you want a beer or something?"
"Yeah, sure. Grab two and meet me outside."
With that he let the door close between us. I stumbled back into the cold dark of the apartment. I found my way to the fridge and plucked out two silver bullets.
I stepped into the open air, betwixt by the celebratory satisfaction that hangs all around me, guitar solo sirens singing the summertime to life. The ice breaks with a double bass slam roaring to life at the tip of a metal wand.
He sits at the top of the stairs reveling in the descriptive sanity that grumbles like a weekend run of a motorcycle engine. The start of the free floating tummy-rumblings that weave through our bodies at the ascent of the thundering rollercoaster.
He laughs at me. My silly tendencies to relish in the simple moments.
"They were always my favorite too."
If there was another me sitting down typing this out, would I create a being that sat all-knowing at the forefronts of the gap between the writer and the reader? Would I have a gatekeeper that was a bit of me reading the story I was living? Was I deeply connected to the divinity of my destiny? What did any of that even mean?
What does any of this really mean? Where is this voice really coming from? This is your own individual voice, that much is true. Warbled into existence by the continuing pace of your word consumption. But it's my voice, my shape that you are building in your mind. My order sculpted from your mass.
Is this a story, a novel, a short story, a poem, prose, biography, autobiography, psychotic, sane, selfish, sorry, sad, singular, new, old, influenced, original, boring, satisfactory, sharp, dull, interesting, arresting, developing, daring, dung, fun, fair, factory fed, or hacked out?
Who am I and what do I have to say?
The futureburger awaits consumption as I sit down trying to figure it all out. The sun glows supernova summer and deep in my cave I scratch etchings in my virtual cavespace. Does this ring true? Can near non-existence read as adventure pulp?
Digital bloodshed flows before me, ringing with true sympathetic sadism. I'm throwing written jabs and hooks, swinging for the soft spots. Nothing seems to connect as I anticipate the dialogue flow that is to come. Characters? Not within this story. This story is the voice, omniscient and trustworthy, blessed with unified purpose.
"Where am I going with this?", I wondered as I looked up at Chow Yun Fat delivering a beat down. "I'm treading thin water here. No one's following this are they? Maybe we've grabbed a few lizard-brained types, snatching a high off the linguistic-lysurgic-acid that I distilled into minature bitmapped graphics that dance before your eyes as they read these words.
"These exact words."
DING-GONG.
Who the hell is this? I'm supposed to have the apartment to myself today and of course someone drops by. I get up to get the door and I see the intense shadow shape that surges my entire body with mental stimulation. A full body tickle up the nervous system peaking in a glorious blaze within our minds.
Who the fuck is this? The sun beat down hard like a solar death ray charring the edges off this monolithic figure. I pushed open the screen door as I began to fall to my knees.
"Hey there guy. Watch yourself."
His arm was there like it was carved from stone. It felt real and true, unwavering in its strength as I clung to it for support.
"Thanks."
"No problem. So how's it going?"
"Life? Okay I guess. I'm getting used to it."
"It's a bit easier coming from the other side. I don't envy you."
"Really? It's kind of hard to judge how I'm doing."
"Well, I'm liking the work so far."
"You've read it?"
"Absolutely. It's rough around the edges but there's some raw talent there."
"You think so? It's so hard for me to accept that. Not sure why. I guess I feel I don't deserve to be good at anything."
"You see man? That's the kind of crap I'm talking about. Nobody is going to like somebody with that frame of mind. It just poisons the whole package."
"I kind of see what you mean. It's like how I'm acting with other people is sort of who I am in the world, and who I am in the world is who I think I am. It's a symbiotic nature I guess. Wrestling that duality of thinking, between our role in society and our internal self, that's where we need the balance."
"You're on the right lines of thinking but that's also your problem."
"I don't follow."
"Thinking, and adding all that nonsense of what people are thinking and needing to know. It's all crap. That only defines you so far. The rest is standing up like a man, making a mark, carving out a path that is righteous and in following with your obsessive idealistic nature. You owe the world nothing less than greatest world you can imagine."
"It's hard to really say I get what you mean, to truly understand it. I guess that's why we need the story. The story in all its variations allow us to become initiated in all manner of schizophrenic states. Not only crossing cultural influence now, we mix in the mental states of the creators of our celebrity society. We long to bask in the sun of the temporarily divine rays of stardom."
"Making the mix this time around all the more potent. You've got access to the minds of a world of like-minded agents."
"Wow. This is just like one of those really heavy conversations I've always wanted to have."
"Well it couldn't be anyone else's."
"Jeez. I just realized I haven't even invited you in. C'mon in. Do you want a beer or something?"
"Yeah, sure. Grab two and meet me outside."
With that he let the door close between us. I stumbled back into the cold dark of the apartment. I found my way to the fridge and plucked out two silver bullets.
I stepped into the open air, betwixt by the celebratory satisfaction that hangs all around me, guitar solo sirens singing the summertime to life. The ice breaks with a double bass slam roaring to life at the tip of a metal wand.
He sits at the top of the stairs reveling in the descriptive sanity that grumbles like a weekend run of a motorcycle engine. The start of the free floating tummy-rumblings that weave through our bodies at the ascent of the thundering rollercoaster.
He laughs at me. My silly tendencies to relish in the simple moments.
"They were always my favorite too."
If there was another me sitting down typing this out, would I create a being that sat all-knowing at the forefronts of the gap between the writer and the reader? Would I have a gatekeeper that was a bit of me reading the story I was living? Was I deeply connected to the divinity of my destiny? What did any of that even mean?
What does any of this really mean? Where is this voice really coming from? This is your own individual voice, that much is true. Warbled into existence by the continuing pace of your word consumption. But it's my voice, my shape that you are building in your mind. My order sculpted from your mass.
Is this a story, a novel, a short story, a poem, prose, biography, autobiography, psychotic, sane, selfish, sorry, sad, singular, new, old, influenced, original, boring, satisfactory, sharp, dull, interesting, arresting, developing, daring, dung, fun, fair, factory fed, or hacked out?
Who am I and what do I have to say?
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