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?
Monday, March 30, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 22 -
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 formed 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 formed 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 23, 2009
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 after all. 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 after all. 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.
Monday, March 16, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 20 - Ghosts of the World
05/17/04
"Sitting in the circle of six, is the seventh, the universal. He is a man, yet no less than the sum of their parts. This being that is born anew into the cycle, is never able to experience and grow past that childlike love of the world. The desires of the six maneuver their shining center, birthing him as a being to carry their burdens, to shoulder their woes. The center is blessed with the earthly pains of his six."
I sat back after typing up this sentence, my mind soaring on a placebo mental enhancement tea, and my belly full with vegetable soup. Bobbing up and down, soaking in the primordial anxiety of our collision culture, I stared off into a world and simple truth. A holy txt file was forming, something that resembled answers, impossibly improbable answers, but answers that made sense to the state of mind I had reached.
Stripped of all the subcategories of me/them personalities, I found myself there, as one of the six. And I found the truth to be that we all secretly want to be the seventh, the person that blossoms, and not the discarded, fragmented shards of their shell. My ego fights furiously beneath my mind, claiming its royalty based on suffering served.
The story rises from our bodies like steam after a long, hot shower. It unfolds before us like a map, showing only the most dualistic of events. North, south. Good, evil. The story is our program laid bare, our essence of humanity's design, drawn and charted. As the story's power grows and more minds are laid bare before its awesome presence, the more we become the true bearer's of the original, the ideal, six.
We are the Ghosts of the World. Mad thinkers of a free design, burning with the passion of united resonance.
"Sitting in the circle of six, is the seventh, the universal. He is a man, yet no less than the sum of their parts. This being that is born anew into the cycle, is never able to experience and grow past that childlike love of the world. The desires of the six maneuver their shining center, birthing him as a being to carry their burdens, to shoulder their woes. The center is blessed with the earthly pains of his six."
I sat back after typing up this sentence, my mind soaring on a placebo mental enhancement tea, and my belly full with vegetable soup. Bobbing up and down, soaking in the primordial anxiety of our collision culture, I stared off into a world and simple truth. A holy txt file was forming, something that resembled answers, impossibly improbable answers, but answers that made sense to the state of mind I had reached.
Stripped of all the subcategories of me/them personalities, I found myself there, as one of the six. And I found the truth to be that we all secretly want to be the seventh, the person that blossoms, and not the discarded, fragmented shards of their shell. My ego fights furiously beneath my mind, claiming its royalty based on suffering served.
The story rises from our bodies like steam after a long, hot shower. It unfolds before us like a map, showing only the most dualistic of events. North, south. Good, evil. The story is our program laid bare, our essence of humanity's design, drawn and charted. As the story's power grows and more minds are laid bare before its awesome presence, the more we become the true bearer's of the original, the ideal, six.
We are the Ghosts of the World. Mad thinkers of a free design, burning with the passion of united resonance.
Monday, March 9, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 19 - Treading Trembling Tolstoy
05/13/04
Spawned from children, ideas of a world that is ideal and stamped with a singular love of itself, burning with the intensity of long lost love, summer daydreams, and a friendship cut down in its prime. Dormant in my skull is the map to this place, a hollow key born of madness, carved from my bones.
Spider grabs my brain, smooshing his fingers through the membrane of my frontal lobe, and grips tightly to my cerebral roots. Unearthed in mind, I am freed. Free to be dragged, stumbling, wobbly, trying to find my legs as I tip toe towards the future. I laugh and giggle as we careen past the games that everyone keeps changing the rules to, the one game that has become a game for all. Folding cardboard lives prop open all around me, the contestants all vigorously moving their pieces about, reciting line after line about how the game is to be played, what I can and can not do.
"Poor fools.." I mumble to myself, half delirious on the vapors of metaphysical-fictional travel through the ether of cosmic chum.
The smack of a thousand vengeful teachers resonated on the side of my face for years after Spider had let loose with the blow. I remembered the smack as if from a third person perspective, seen as if through the eyes of everyone but myself.
"What makes you think you're better than they are?" His words had been the most painful part of the reality lesson I was experiencing. A de-bratification if you will.
"They're doing what they think is right, some of them. Maybe they don't see past the game but they're trying and that was ten times more than you were doing. They have the drive, they get it done, they make the changes. If you pity them, you might as well pity the wind or the sea. Each does it part, every crack covered, and every detail taken care of in its way. It can not be any other way. They must play; their ups and downs are the mechanism that keeps this fire burning. They empower you with their will. Be good to them and you will not be denied."
He left me there, sitting, trapped in the muck. It's funny, once you are submerged, the pain and relief is like a gift. It's the struggle that keeps you running. It's the suffering that makes or breaks you.
Solve the riddle of birth, the unification that rests in your own soul, the merging of two to one.
Spawned from children, ideas of a world that is ideal and stamped with a singular love of itself, burning with the intensity of long lost love, summer daydreams, and a friendship cut down in its prime. Dormant in my skull is the map to this place, a hollow key born of madness, carved from my bones.
Spider grabs my brain, smooshing his fingers through the membrane of my frontal lobe, and grips tightly to my cerebral roots. Unearthed in mind, I am freed. Free to be dragged, stumbling, wobbly, trying to find my legs as I tip toe towards the future. I laugh and giggle as we careen past the games that everyone keeps changing the rules to, the one game that has become a game for all. Folding cardboard lives prop open all around me, the contestants all vigorously moving their pieces about, reciting line after line about how the game is to be played, what I can and can not do.
"Poor fools.." I mumble to myself, half delirious on the vapors of metaphysical-fictional travel through the ether of cosmic chum.
The smack of a thousand vengeful teachers resonated on the side of my face for years after Spider had let loose with the blow. I remembered the smack as if from a third person perspective, seen as if through the eyes of everyone but myself.
"What makes you think you're better than they are?" His words had been the most painful part of the reality lesson I was experiencing. A de-bratification if you will.
"They're doing what they think is right, some of them. Maybe they don't see past the game but they're trying and that was ten times more than you were doing. They have the drive, they get it done, they make the changes. If you pity them, you might as well pity the wind or the sea. Each does it part, every crack covered, and every detail taken care of in its way. It can not be any other way. They must play; their ups and downs are the mechanism that keeps this fire burning. They empower you with their will. Be good to them and you will not be denied."
He left me there, sitting, trapped in the muck. It's funny, once you are submerged, the pain and relief is like a gift. It's the struggle that keeps you running. It's the suffering that makes or breaks you.
Solve the riddle of birth, the unification that rests in your own soul, the merging of two to one.
Monday, March 2, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 18 - Polarization of Persona
05/04/04
With a shrug of the shoulders and a chuckle to himself, I accepted my fate. It was a good fate, far as fates go. Not too sure of the particulars, but I'll tell you this...it's bound to be a ride.
Shot like a cannon, soaring for a few brief moments like a singular and spectacular god slicing through the heavens. Too high to recall the pain of continued existence, united with the true nature of all mankind. More than complete, and less than yourself. A you so you that it becomes a you that is a meta-you. A persona that vibrates within, drawn to the surface of the pond by the intense vibrational creative fires that rage so nearby. Coming up for air, linked with several minds in one delicious moment of communion of craft.
I am thankful. I don't know why I deserve this, so I count my blessings and pack my bags. A vacation, no, a journey, an epic quest even. A task so heinous and fraught with peril that only I, with my training and drive, could accomplish. I was set loose, freed and shown the light beyond my perceived galaxy. Looking over my shoulder I knew I could not continue without my flock.
But first my training must be completed. I have been initiated and seek only the completion of the courses necessary to destroy every damn, dirty idea that seeks to crush my brothers in chains around the world. Enslaved by the genetic memory of self-imposed limitations, taught to us by those superior earthly powers that once dominated our world.
"They're comfortable, you know. They'll hate you for tearing down their defining pains." Agent Spider placed his firm grip down on my shoulder. "And you sure as shit better have a good idea what comes after."
I looked ahead and through, peering at the patterns of spiraling synchronicity that lie before me and behind me. The collapsing conundrum of all existence was just around the corner from now.
"Man, I can't wait."
With a shrug of the shoulders and a chuckle to himself, I accepted my fate. It was a good fate, far as fates go. Not too sure of the particulars, but I'll tell you this...it's bound to be a ride.
Shot like a cannon, soaring for a few brief moments like a singular and spectacular god slicing through the heavens. Too high to recall the pain of continued existence, united with the true nature of all mankind. More than complete, and less than yourself. A you so you that it becomes a you that is a meta-you. A persona that vibrates within, drawn to the surface of the pond by the intense vibrational creative fires that rage so nearby. Coming up for air, linked with several minds in one delicious moment of communion of craft.
I am thankful. I don't know why I deserve this, so I count my blessings and pack my bags. A vacation, no, a journey, an epic quest even. A task so heinous and fraught with peril that only I, with my training and drive, could accomplish. I was set loose, freed and shown the light beyond my perceived galaxy. Looking over my shoulder I knew I could not continue without my flock.
But first my training must be completed. I have been initiated and seek only the completion of the courses necessary to destroy every damn, dirty idea that seeks to crush my brothers in chains around the world. Enslaved by the genetic memory of self-imposed limitations, taught to us by those superior earthly powers that once dominated our world.
"They're comfortable, you know. They'll hate you for tearing down their defining pains." Agent Spider placed his firm grip down on my shoulder. "And you sure as shit better have a good idea what comes after."
I looked ahead and through, peering at the patterns of spiraling synchronicity that lie before me and behind me. The collapsing conundrum of all existence was just around the corner from now.
"Man, I can't wait."
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