Coming of the One Great Vision A figure hunched in a rain soaked doorway. Nothing but a silhouette, black on brown, and the rain so heavy the street looked like a poorly-tuned TV. Detective Art Neilssohn was a pair of eyes behind a newspaper: headline, "50 Millionth CCTV Camera marks Victory for Surveillance Society". It's all about knowing how to read the situation. As the figure makes a dart behind the cover of a bus, Art makes his move. The newspaper drops between the fallen autumn leaves. The camera comes out from the overcoat, a leaden grey weight, and whirs into life. Just one shot of this face and Art'll be five hundred pounds the richer. A car horn, a revved engi
Down by the Seaside Molten insects in the junk-sick morning,Glistening in the wreckage of the free revolution,The syphilitic masses moan their liberal platitudes.The Age of the EunuchPhosphorent yellow ideas,Recycled to ectoplasms and shadows,Are smeared over the sea wall,Masticated billboards saturate the sands of time. The Great Beach is finally polluted, fetid stench of loath martyrs. The hope found in how much worse it will get.
Wormsaddle, the best batch yet This is the world that you made,In towers blind of oceans and forests,Hunched over aching tables devoid of light,Sucking a bilious haze of memories.Wandering a narrowing byway,Grasping fingernails rending and tearing at flowers,Glossing your broken life with molten lies,Drewling and sleucing from your sucking mouth.The demagogues have fallen. Cannot you see their husks?The maelstrom of light collapsed that leviathan,Along with your dreams.So sag back home to your broken shell,Where your offspring lie in shattered cages,Bound to wandering, souls as empty as your eyes,You are the human waste,By which we measure our
Liquid Breeze of Stopwatchsigh The Old Man sat with his hair a blowin,Down past sideboards and an open wound face,He called out craziness and flick maggot zapfa at the creakin craw,Waitin for his time to come.Young boy blue watched from veils,Under ogre trees of marshmallows,Kickin wit dose pachucos who wear their colours in their feathers, And their feathers on their bombers.Walkin out of the O-K-Corale, Hamburger in hand,Suckin on his lady till she implodes merriment. Still the Old Man waited, exaaaaaaaasperated.He deliberated his possession of truth.Waiting for the summer he got in his head.
On the Road I was in the car with Bilzip. He was another one of these syphillitic crust-rats that suck on life so hard it draws blood. He was casual at the moment, the dope filled his lungs with a warm and subtle contentment that halted their usual incessant screaming. Screaming like the very oxygen they needed was raping their dark beauty. He was lay back in his seat showing no sign of life but for an occasional turn of the wheel and a spasmodic neckjerk whenever the radio peaked. His lips tightened to a smile as another familiar melody filled his ears. He was indeed a child of his generation. The women seemed to like him, in the way simple wome
Glass Gaspacho for Pachuco The Bug burrowed, Skittered scurried, Down through the swallowing soil,Leafy Bug, wrasping bud, Cannot find which way is up. Yellowed as tinfoil.Came across slow rivers, Mirage mirrors, Of things fallen and left behind,In desperate races. Under saturaton, throats of water,Old ideas emaciated. Bugscratch, dream of sun, Heaving lungs, under ash mountains.When bombs fall, maelstrom of fire, Bug will breach air and see us fall.
Pachuco's Egg throatsprout Programme of bees eyes, Filtered through garbled throat of fishlips,The Girl got it coming, hot and empty. Flipped on her back,Lipsmack, call the cops, we got moren we held in our breaths for before,Peeled apart an opened, Girl feel like a banana borrito,Meat flowers burst electric, She got a toad in her heart N it writhes black furrows in her brow.Cold January morning in May,Out in the streets o Lansfire we hear the crisp,Ears fill with music of soulwarmth,Pa
Thoughthook - Minestrone Salad Silcone eyes slide the focus of the exterior, Mindprison, escape via guillotine, GATES EMPTYTickled sounds reverberate laughing delight, Along fall plains of complex dimension,The world is seen from beneath the eyelids. Neurone synapse, Relax unto nature, Clenchsweat pearls.The endless corridors, corporeal architecture, Long march down marbled staircase spinal column,Colours cannot find, not refined, ill defined, Dedicated to truth within infallible harmony. G
Tearoom banter with forks The Old Man's liquid berievement flowed like the stars from heaven,A weight unimaginable held his breath like a clamp,Tears poured upon the fallen stranger,Strange sorrow confused air around her, compounded her, into the wrattled sigh, that is all that remains of him. Pachuco shot hot gaze at his woman,An open oven, Signpost eyes scream, "Please Her! Tease Her! Decieve Her!"His love poems read like issues of playboy, Pachuco knew he was in love, He entered it quickly, Humped it into de
Subterranean Tightrope Ballet Naked, Adamant, The Crazy on the corner,An abhorrent anomaly on the metropolis system,Forcibly unfocused in the insect's eyes,Irrelevant as open skies,To vacuous mind's corroded listen,Zero-tolerance polite guise,Babble flowing with dewy glisten,A burning mind's open sauna.No-one knows the paths he's travelled,Swallowed by his empty dreams,Or rambled by his silken streams,No-one heard the Gods unravel,So Crazy discipled himself a mission,To teach to you a truer Vision.
Town on Fire A crimson velvet undercuts the evening sky,Moon drips through clouds as if through a colander,The dying sunset sets each puddle ablaze,They burn like eastern oils, lending each street its own fragrant vapour,A labyrinth of palpable atmospheres.The sun finally collapses into night and the whole town rumbles like the belly of a drunk,It wobbles on toddlers legs before dropping and shattering into a myriad of dreamscapes.Put your ear to the ground and you'll hear the merciless heartbeat,Someone, someday will drive a nuclear finger into its pulsating centre,An act that will no doubt ease up congestion.Yet still the dogs are hu
28 The decadent insecurities of man are plowed into time by those who feel what they think.Nervous energy in schitzoid thoughts,Emoting the surpassing of indifference.Where are the women to swoon for these men?To bend for their hands carrying flags through gunfire,To break like the tide onto beds thick with whiskey and memories.They stand hallogen on menthol floors,Staring at thin legs stood still to the beat of High nothings sounding sirens to flopping hair.To emaciated bodies of romantics,The perfect coy smile,The finest art in the age of the fop.Its butter drips off a snail onto washing m
Discourse on Voidism Today's rationality is effectively based on false premises. Inside all realms of logic from science to the arts we base the knowledge we have of our world on ideas presupposed as true and self-evident. The so-called advancement of our understanding is less of an "advancement" than a continued contrivance toward an unspecific goal. In both the worlds of science and religion, the two apparently opposing entities in modern everyday existence, we find a need for total unification and universality. As Sartre said "man cannot choose his own path without therefore choosing it for the entirety of man" (39). Such we find that knowledge, as a product o
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