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 scorched black from the spatial ash. 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, March 28, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
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 masses 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 allows 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 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 hung 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, 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 masses 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 allows 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 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 hung 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, 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?
Monday, March 14, 2011
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 22 - (edit)
06/18/04
The circle closes in on me as the symphonic sadness that birthed me anew seeps into my ears with syrupy serenity. My gaskets were blown and I was running on pistons pumping only partially. Skipped a beat, and fell down skidding to a halt before this very moment. Arms flailing in a vertigo twist, perched on the thin line between eternity and infinity.
The mind warps in the heat, bending and buckling like a 45 in the sidewalk sun. The sweat feels good, oozing and sliming out the gunk that forms the filth layer of interaction. Getting in those last few moments of immersed muck, writing the memory down as the most absolute joy of youthful abandon.
Gripping the sides of the obsidian machine, I entered the ritualistic magic word, granting access to the dementions within. The words are beaten loose from their holding. Picked seemingly at random, but the pattern emerges as the selection becomes more instinctual, more dynamic. Vocabulary increases as the nothingness of unthought becomes a buzzing and radiant beacon, beaming my message to unwitting carriers.
Buzzing like a wasp, singing and searing under my skin. My mind's horror sees the seductive insanity of spiders' legs marching to a primal beat. I revel in its fictitious effect, and have finally grasped the concept. I am beyond damnation now.
Ticking madnesz in my ears drives me towards the end of this, this monstrosity of monotony. Ready the throne, I'm coming home.
The circle closes in on me as the symphonic sadness that birthed me anew seeps into my ears with syrupy serenity. My gaskets were blown and I was running on pistons pumping only partially. Skipped a beat, and fell down skidding to a halt before this very moment. Arms flailing in a vertigo twist, perched on the thin line between eternity and infinity.
The mind warps in the heat, bending and buckling like a 45 in the sidewalk sun. The sweat feels good, oozing and sliming out the gunk that forms the filth layer of interaction. Getting in those last few moments of immersed muck, writing the memory down as the most absolute joy of youthful abandon.
Gripping the sides of the obsidian machine, I entered the ritualistic magic word, granting access to the dementions within. The words are beaten loose from their holding. Picked seemingly at random, but the pattern emerges as the selection becomes more instinctual, more dynamic. Vocabulary increases as the nothingness of unthought becomes a buzzing and radiant beacon, beaming my message to unwitting carriers.
Buzzing like a wasp, singing and searing under my skin. My mind's horror sees the seductive insanity of spiders' legs marching to a primal beat. I revel in its fictitious effect, and have finally grasped the concept. I am beyond damnation now.
Ticking madnesz in my ears drives me towards the end of this, this monstrosity of monotony. Ready the throne, I'm coming home.
Monday, March 7, 2011
the T.O.B. - chapter twentyone: !
06/10/04
Bobbing in the wave like a buoyant brain, soaking in settlements of sedimental sentimentality. Giving my self over to a brighter power, brought low with scalpel surgery, coding a brand upon my lizard tale. Forced to forge a great new travesty ever after. More will see than can be shown the great new ending of it all.
Revolting developmental diatribes of counter-anti-revolutionaries burning bright into the night sky, bounding over endless mornings of decimated determination. My mind skips words like rocks rocking out over the context of an elongated elimination of eternal inequities or rather failings of my myriad deities.
Flexed fornicating future fixes me with its sly smiling sadism. Skidding my way towards that calamity chasm, that tangible terror, fearsome failings, I find a way to avoid and ingest those pains. Here's the cheat, write it down, and gobble it up.
Now you're in. In lyke Flinn. Skidoo skidoo.
Bullets whizzing, rocketing rockets roaring, and explosions freaking exploding under foot! Gadget shoes, made indestructible by Gear Goneloose, ricketing railgun blasts of a thousand rayguns firing in unison. A flip and sail, as well as a maneuver of epic proportions, cause friction between my shoes and the side of the building, sparking sparkling sparks frying metal shreds as I skip my way out.
A beer in the dark, Sunday sex looming out there in the dark gloom of the urban trawl, somewhere beyond the milky colored glass that lie in the background of the enemy before me. Spider's incubator shell lies next to him, shivering, sad and serene in a beautiful purple prose.
The bartender eyes me with a piercing caress from behind his protective lenses. My hair hung loose and long in a faux seventies rock, sensitive and seductive, demure to the bitter end. Alcohol is passed, as is the acceptance of my cover story, burning coal red under the soft lights of the scene.
Dark behind the shades, gliding effortlessly, carried by the turning and swirling wind, blind and exposed in the public grounds of the "world". Memories of Spider's brooding display of power and forgiving frankness. Confession drips from my tongue in an Achilles tone, emptying all problems before the Bastard.
Recall of the mangled bones baring my back, broken and then pieced together to hold this slacking, coward's posture before the people. Brought low, made forever the comedic riot, slapped and slammed with a saddened clown smile. Brawn and boldness broke these shards I call bones. Not the physique of the hero, but the Bully, Bastard, Bruised thug, bearing a grudge on the light.
Shots rang out all around, fired from my mind's barrel, sending slivers of adaptive imaginative reality sailing into the beast of infinite openness, and I swear I heard that Bastard roar.
Bobbing in the wave like a buoyant brain, soaking in settlements of sedimental sentimentality. Giving my self over to a brighter power, brought low with scalpel surgery, coding a brand upon my lizard tale. Forced to forge a great new travesty ever after. More will see than can be shown the great new ending of it all.
Revolting developmental diatribes of counter-anti-revolutionaries burning bright into the night sky, bounding over endless mornings of decimated determination. My mind skips words like rocks rocking out over the context of an elongated elimination of eternal inequities or rather failings of my myriad deities.
Flexed fornicating future fixes me with its sly smiling sadism. Skidding my way towards that calamity chasm, that tangible terror, fearsome failings, I find a way to avoid and ingest those pains. Here's the cheat, write it down, and gobble it up.
Now you're in. In lyke Flinn. Skidoo skidoo.
Bullets whizzing, rocketing rockets roaring, and explosions freaking exploding under foot! Gadget shoes, made indestructible by Gear Goneloose, ricketing railgun blasts of a thousand rayguns firing in unison. A flip and sail, as well as a maneuver of epic proportions, cause friction between my shoes and the side of the building, sparking sparkling sparks frying metal shreds as I skip my way out.
A beer in the dark, Sunday sex looming out there in the dark gloom of the urban trawl, somewhere beyond the milky colored glass that lie in the background of the enemy before me. Spider's incubator shell lies next to him, shivering, sad and serene in a beautiful purple prose.
The bartender eyes me with a piercing caress from behind his protective lenses. My hair hung loose and long in a faux seventies rock, sensitive and seductive, demure to the bitter end. Alcohol is passed, as is the acceptance of my cover story, burning coal red under the soft lights of the scene.
Dark behind the shades, gliding effortlessly, carried by the turning and swirling wind, blind and exposed in the public grounds of the "world". Memories of Spider's brooding display of power and forgiving frankness. Confession drips from my tongue in an Achilles tone, emptying all problems before the Bastard.
Recall of the mangled bones baring my back, broken and then pieced together to hold this slacking, coward's posture before the people. Brought low, made forever the comedic riot, slapped and slammed with a saddened clown smile. Brawn and boldness broke these shards I call bones. Not the physique of the hero, but the Bully, Bastard, Bruised thug, bearing a grudge on the light.
Shots rang out all around, fired from my mind's barrel, sending slivers of adaptive imaginative reality sailing into the beast of infinite openness, and I swear I heard that Bastard roar.
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