09/08/04
Gut wrenches and heaves out the pain. Droplets of liquid nostalgia run down my cheeks as the exhumed pain bursts forth and escapes into the ether. Opposing viewpoints invade my core self, and flip the switch. The light is born into my heart, and I have won. I have made it to the other side.
Oppressed by tyrannical self-sacrifice, seemingly self inflicted, but knowing now that I had been controlled all along.
Spider sat in the driver's seat spinning the steering wheel with a madman's fervor. Fenris lies bleeding in the back seat, clutching at the pain, grasping at his insides. "I'm not going to make it..."
"Do you want to make it?" Spider calmly turned to address me as the car spun crazily across the landscape with a blue-screened intensity.
"Yes." Fenris choked up between bubbles of blood.
"Then let go and look down."
I looked down at my stomach and saw that the gore was gone. Not only gone, but taken away completely as if it were never there at all. I felt lighter all of a sudden and felt euphoria work its way up my body, cell by cell, nerve by nerve. Electric fire dance of my soul.
The car explodes and I'm left sitting in the middle of the street, cobblestones pressing into my flesh. I stand and wobble, finding my legs. Still drunk and stumbling from the numbing intoxication of my mind. Step after step I walk towards my fall. I see it on the horizon. Time collapses and I am suddenly wavering on the edge of oblivion. Waving hands and flailing arms, internal gyroscope flux towards a tippy toe drop. Then the push.
A firm hand shoves me forward and the momentum spins my built up revolutions and forges the fire in my insides. Revved up and roaring, I feel supercharged tenacity singing through my veins. Pounding, pulsating, power erupting beneath my skin and with a flexing of my arms the wall shatters to splinters.
My other arm lashes out and the far wall is atomized in a telepathic sunburst. Arms crossed, muscles tensed, I slam my hands down to the ground and the remaining fragments of the prison I built for myself crumbles to pieces.
I am naked. Alone in white nothingness. The void reflecting back the sheen of my self. The pure and utter love I have kept from myself. A beautiful and splendid man standing firm and tall. Lines and wrinkles come and burrow into me as I wipe away the boyhood haunts and etch out the spirit of man.
Spider and Fenris extend themselves outward, creating a unified being. Trinity divination, mythic mysticism, and the blade comes smoothly from the rock.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - Chapter 27.3 - Son and the Moon
09/01/04
Submerged. Exhale. Inhalation of manhood filling my lungs, gripping my chest with a firm man's hand. Breathing is labored and exhausting. These turbulent times are beating the soft parts out of me. Forging firm and stern from weakness and shame.
I bask in the mirror of lunar delicacy, driven to a point of singular unthought. My mind is still and ripples only occasionally, but lies quiet and calm under the moon's cold, marble touch. Moonlit massage sends shivers down my spine and I am whole.
I begin to slip and fall from its grip and I flounder about flailing, reaching for something to cling to. But the cold moon defies me, its warmth and glow the mirrored brilliance of the obstructed sun. It cares not for me or my woes, or me at all. It is a rock in the sky, spinning like clockwork, spinning on until our final days.
Lunar fantasies come crashing back down to the dirt. Firm soil, rich and ripe for growth of something from the smallest of nothing. A seed planted will produce something that serves a purpose in this world of practical necessities.
The light of the moon still reigns down upon me, but I do not regret my fall from its splendor. Instead I cherish my brief moments wrapped in her arms, when it had transcended the reality of science and became myth just long enough for me to feel the ancient female flow.
Leaving her is hard, but I feel firm and stout. I feel chiseled and cold. Stuck in funk and the mire of an unquiet mind. I please myself through her, not feeling my own intense emotions but rather escaping into her pulses of exstacy. Feeding off her intense submission to the power I wield, I grow stronger and more alive.
What do I want? To cast the light and warm the world? Doing what I can to deliver unto the masses long summer days basking in my warm glow. The earth trims my light and paints the moon as part of our dance. From full to new, from new to full, our hide and seek games with our carousel hearts.
I can never own the moon, nor would I want to. She is splendor and beauty, basking and coming alive under the son's loving gaze. To capture her is to deny her that which makes her so appealing, her independent death and rebirth.
What would the sun want? Is it simply there to provide and burn on alone in the dark void of the unknown cosmos? Where is its purpose and desires? Buried deep within its swirling gasses and supernova heat lies something that we will never see, but something we will never be without.
Submerged. Exhale. Inhalation of manhood filling my lungs, gripping my chest with a firm man's hand. Breathing is labored and exhausting. These turbulent times are beating the soft parts out of me. Forging firm and stern from weakness and shame.
I bask in the mirror of lunar delicacy, driven to a point of singular unthought. My mind is still and ripples only occasionally, but lies quiet and calm under the moon's cold, marble touch. Moonlit massage sends shivers down my spine and I am whole.
I begin to slip and fall from its grip and I flounder about flailing, reaching for something to cling to. But the cold moon defies me, its warmth and glow the mirrored brilliance of the obstructed sun. It cares not for me or my woes, or me at all. It is a rock in the sky, spinning like clockwork, spinning on until our final days.
Lunar fantasies come crashing back down to the dirt. Firm soil, rich and ripe for growth of something from the smallest of nothing. A seed planted will produce something that serves a purpose in this world of practical necessities.
The light of the moon still reigns down upon me, but I do not regret my fall from its splendor. Instead I cherish my brief moments wrapped in her arms, when it had transcended the reality of science and became myth just long enough for me to feel the ancient female flow.
Leaving her is hard, but I feel firm and stout. I feel chiseled and cold. Stuck in funk and the mire of an unquiet mind. I please myself through her, not feeling my own intense emotions but rather escaping into her pulses of exstacy. Feeding off her intense submission to the power I wield, I grow stronger and more alive.
What do I want? To cast the light and warm the world? Doing what I can to deliver unto the masses long summer days basking in my warm glow. The earth trims my light and paints the moon as part of our dance. From full to new, from new to full, our hide and seek games with our carousel hearts.
I can never own the moon, nor would I want to. She is splendor and beauty, basking and coming alive under the son's loving gaze. To capture her is to deny her that which makes her so appealing, her independent death and rebirth.
What would the sun want? Is it simply there to provide and burn on alone in the dark void of the unknown cosmos? Where is its purpose and desires? Buried deep within its swirling gasses and supernova heat lies something that we will never see, but something we will never be without.
Monday, May 11, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - twentysevenpoint2 - For all my feelings I'm heartless
09/04/04
I sit back and take a long look at the screen in front of me. Digitized and dazzling, I have become embedded into a carved language sculpture. Suddenly chapters had appeared in place of my pain. Months had passed and life continued without me. I immediately spun around to share my newfound fiction with those in my life to find they were gone, evaporated by time's passage.
I stepped outside and ghost town blues whispered through the lonely suburban streets. I walked on towards my future and the world dissolved into a nostalgic mist. Lines of homes all cut from the same cloth, row after row of variations on a theme. Similarly different in living out the same story. Every house a different fragment of psyche. A fractal reproduction of the replicating viral lifestyle. It is among these plastic castles that I see that awareness is selling out, taking comfort for safety and the joy of being part of the machine.
Disillusionment.
Apocalyptic details strewn about the land. Laughing fools celebrate the sad sickness of their souls. Accept the pain, love the disease, praise the decay. Fantastic ignorant fantasies. Fucking lies in a shot glass, swallowed down hard like a bitter bitch. Wallowing winters succumb my sweltering humid summers, and I am again devoured by my own silly daydreams.
Enough of these dry, single revelations tossed back, bellied up at the bar. Frightening fictions breed like fractals fornicating on the hot, sweaty streets. I am alone and dignified in my manhood. Responsible and empowered, alone and terrified.
Women swarm to cover and protect in self serving manners, but I will not submit to charms and spells of a duplicitous nature. I hate the vulnerable beast I show to you, shamed and born of gallant grotesque.
How do you know how to be a man in the land of selfish adult children? How can I walk among the inferior that I put upon a pedestal, afraid to be exposed as the wannabe I know myself as.
Alone in my loneliest hours, separated by thought and deed, I feel remorse and hate and anger and love and a sadness that sickens me to my core.
I love the pain. Inflicted, inflection, virus mutation. This nightmare of persona must have an end.
I sit back and take a long look at the screen in front of me. Digitized and dazzling, I have become embedded into a carved language sculpture. Suddenly chapters had appeared in place of my pain. Months had passed and life continued without me. I immediately spun around to share my newfound fiction with those in my life to find they were gone, evaporated by time's passage.
I stepped outside and ghost town blues whispered through the lonely suburban streets. I walked on towards my future and the world dissolved into a nostalgic mist. Lines of homes all cut from the same cloth, row after row of variations on a theme. Similarly different in living out the same story. Every house a different fragment of psyche. A fractal reproduction of the replicating viral lifestyle. It is among these plastic castles that I see that awareness is selling out, taking comfort for safety and the joy of being part of the machine.
Disillusionment.
Apocalyptic details strewn about the land. Laughing fools celebrate the sad sickness of their souls. Accept the pain, love the disease, praise the decay. Fantastic ignorant fantasies. Fucking lies in a shot glass, swallowed down hard like a bitter bitch. Wallowing winters succumb my sweltering humid summers, and I am again devoured by my own silly daydreams.
Enough of these dry, single revelations tossed back, bellied up at the bar. Frightening fictions breed like fractals fornicating on the hot, sweaty streets. I am alone and dignified in my manhood. Responsible and empowered, alone and terrified.
Women swarm to cover and protect in self serving manners, but I will not submit to charms and spells of a duplicitous nature. I hate the vulnerable beast I show to you, shamed and born of gallant grotesque.
How do you know how to be a man in the land of selfish adult children? How can I walk among the inferior that I put upon a pedestal, afraid to be exposed as the wannabe I know myself as.
Alone in my loneliest hours, separated by thought and deed, I feel remorse and hate and anger and love and a sadness that sickens me to my core.
I love the pain. Inflicted, inflection, virus mutation. This nightmare of persona must have an end.
Monday, May 4, 2009
the Tower of Brahma - twentyseven - nudeerection
08/26/04
I run from the setting son and head to the East, seeking enlightenment from dawn. But it is dusk and crashing all around me is the day's possibilities. The cold vacuum of night is ensnaring me in the promise of union. They sleep soundlessly, resting and interacting in the astral chat rooms of symbolic imagery. Mathematical equations running psychological storytelling through pop culture lenses. Novel lives.
Life is fun when you're remaining detached and aloof, riding along, absorbing the rollercoaster simulated sensations and channeling them into concentrated fiction. A story about how exciting life can be as you unravel your identity, strip away your self, expose yourself naked and raw and reeling before the cold hard stare of the frightened masses.
But life is discomfort, upsetness, awkwardness all spinning in a mad Shiva ballet. Collisions of ourselves against the others in our lives, bumper car disasters pushing us off in a new direction.
Run and hide behind broken sentence structures, grammatical shrapnel, and a vocabulary enmeshed in babbling incoherency. A false promise of exposed obscurity, hidden in the fog of poetic phrases, I am naked and shivering. I hope these words can save me.
I'm thinking about suicide again for the first time in two years and I have come face to face with the life that exists above and beyond these words. Who do you call when you're sitting alone, more alone than ever? What friend or family member do you call? Who will deliver to you your salvation from this pain that is called living?
I daydreamed longingly of my funeral as a teen. Wiped out of existence forever leaving behind a dead body in the ground. People gathered around in a much too late show of support, with murmurs of regret passed among them. What could they have done? Why did he do this? Would any of them try to see into my life and get to know me? And would they let me know if what they found was worth keeping here?
Fantastic images of self-obsessed, morbid, decadence adrift in the possibility of some deeper connection with someone, anyone, even posthumously. Why do I need to deny them my presence to get their attention? What do I need that their mere presence can't give me? Why aren't their words enough? Selfish, egotistic self-termination can not be the only answer to my longing for a soul deep connection.
Endymion dreaming eternally, seeking respite and the continual hum of divine lucidity. What is this poet's longing that aches deep within me? What true love can fill this hole, so profoundly unfathomable it defies explanation and exorcism? A tumor of need, desire, and longing grows at the bottom of my soul. I seek relief at every oasis of consciousness, stumbling mad and dry through mirage after mirage.
My cross is blazing behind me in the distance. Ahead is a fortified structure jutting out from the sands of space/time. A private building standing indignantly alone amid the wasteland. The X of my genetic map points to this Oedipus Complex.
I sit outside the doors for years, my skin growing thick as layers of dead skin push their way to the surface. I've waited so long that I have forgotten if I ever even knocked in the first place.
I know I visited the many small huts and shacks along the way. Paying my stay with the labor I gave. Empty priestesses cuff me down to the bed frame, begging to be loved. Loved? A mission, a quest for love is where I began this journey, crossing the landscape delivering lessons of vulnerable opposition.
I don't know love, nor life, nor anything at all. I have learned the mechanics of our search, seen the revealed puppetry of falsity and obsessive need. Psychological leeches seeking comfortable symbiotic life. Where is the spirit and beauty of love everlasting?
I run from the setting son and head to the East, seeking enlightenment from dawn. But it is dusk and crashing all around me is the day's possibilities. The cold vacuum of night is ensnaring me in the promise of union. They sleep soundlessly, resting and interacting in the astral chat rooms of symbolic imagery. Mathematical equations running psychological storytelling through pop culture lenses. Novel lives.
Life is fun when you're remaining detached and aloof, riding along, absorbing the rollercoaster simulated sensations and channeling them into concentrated fiction. A story about how exciting life can be as you unravel your identity, strip away your self, expose yourself naked and raw and reeling before the cold hard stare of the frightened masses.
But life is discomfort, upsetness, awkwardness all spinning in a mad Shiva ballet. Collisions of ourselves against the others in our lives, bumper car disasters pushing us off in a new direction.
Run and hide behind broken sentence structures, grammatical shrapnel, and a vocabulary enmeshed in babbling incoherency. A false promise of exposed obscurity, hidden in the fog of poetic phrases, I am naked and shivering. I hope these words can save me.
I'm thinking about suicide again for the first time in two years and I have come face to face with the life that exists above and beyond these words. Who do you call when you're sitting alone, more alone than ever? What friend or family member do you call? Who will deliver to you your salvation from this pain that is called living?
I daydreamed longingly of my funeral as a teen. Wiped out of existence forever leaving behind a dead body in the ground. People gathered around in a much too late show of support, with murmurs of regret passed among them. What could they have done? Why did he do this? Would any of them try to see into my life and get to know me? And would they let me know if what they found was worth keeping here?
Fantastic images of self-obsessed, morbid, decadence adrift in the possibility of some deeper connection with someone, anyone, even posthumously. Why do I need to deny them my presence to get their attention? What do I need that their mere presence can't give me? Why aren't their words enough? Selfish, egotistic self-termination can not be the only answer to my longing for a soul deep connection.
Endymion dreaming eternally, seeking respite and the continual hum of divine lucidity. What is this poet's longing that aches deep within me? What true love can fill this hole, so profoundly unfathomable it defies explanation and exorcism? A tumor of need, desire, and longing grows at the bottom of my soul. I seek relief at every oasis of consciousness, stumbling mad and dry through mirage after mirage.
My cross is blazing behind me in the distance. Ahead is a fortified structure jutting out from the sands of space/time. A private building standing indignantly alone amid the wasteland. The X of my genetic map points to this Oedipus Complex.
I sit outside the doors for years, my skin growing thick as layers of dead skin push their way to the surface. I've waited so long that I have forgotten if I ever even knocked in the first place.
I know I visited the many small huts and shacks along the way. Paying my stay with the labor I gave. Empty priestesses cuff me down to the bed frame, begging to be loved. Loved? A mission, a quest for love is where I began this journey, crossing the landscape delivering lessons of vulnerable opposition.
I don't know love, nor life, nor anything at all. I have learned the mechanics of our search, seen the revealed puppetry of falsity and obsessive need. Psychological leeches seeking comfortable symbiotic life. Where is the spirit and beauty of love everlasting?
Monday, April 27, 2009
THE TOWER OF BRAHMA: Chapter 26 - Breastfed Universe
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.
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 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.
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