Bibliotech. Fanny Batter. Autogeists. The muscles of her head. Concentrated blood plasma. Computer designed sleeping patterns. Desert. Poppy seeds. The fingertip paintings of the chimp thought to be a hybrid human was the design of a wallpaper. The bedrooms in which it was pasted on turned out people with mild insomnia.
Omega. The famous air disaster of the twenty first century used in a musical video by the famous rock band 'Jeremy Stickers'. Intercut throbbing. Exterior, night time. Twin sisters look through a series of slides about world war two, marking the ones displaying any kind of correlation between the pelvis and the skull. Cigarette smoke metaphors.
27.2.10
26.2.10
Miami
The exquisite corpse, horatio holds up an x-ray of a twisted skull shape, beams from the light filter through and overlay onto his face. His sunglasses are removed to reveal the red, ravaged eyes of a soldier.
Weekend. Shapes spiral and run amongst each other like the squirming sargasso sea, the urge to gnash. The reincarnation and replacement for you is alive and well most likely. Alternative dimensions lived out in plain sight. Murder. Blowtorched plastic face moulds smoke in the empty cities. Attempting to change the environment and not eating meat. He force fed animals lipstick.
Don't carry it around in your hands, make sure to pack it safely away onto a two dimensional infosphere. Rock and roll, man. Loose cut foot. Duchampian wedding shards laid on the floor. He tilts his head to push the sunglasses back up. The alpha and the omega. "I'm walking here!" 1926, Philadelphia.
The body lies on the sheets lit by a redhead. Flaws and perfections remain slotted together seemlessly. Black lines emanate from the hips, beneath the ribs, the nipples, the corners of the shoulders, along each thigh, streaming out across the vision like tape. The play button is pressed on a dictaphone so that it plays a speech about overpopulation. It is then rewound and recorded over with a joke about a truck driver.
Weekend. Shapes spiral and run amongst each other like the squirming sargasso sea, the urge to gnash. The reincarnation and replacement for you is alive and well most likely. Alternative dimensions lived out in plain sight. Murder. Blowtorched plastic face moulds smoke in the empty cities. Attempting to change the environment and not eating meat. He force fed animals lipstick.
Don't carry it around in your hands, make sure to pack it safely away onto a two dimensional infosphere. Rock and roll, man. Loose cut foot. Duchampian wedding shards laid on the floor. He tilts his head to push the sunglasses back up. The alpha and the omega. "I'm walking here!" 1926, Philadelphia.
The body lies on the sheets lit by a redhead. Flaws and perfections remain slotted together seemlessly. Black lines emanate from the hips, beneath the ribs, the nipples, the corners of the shoulders, along each thigh, streaming out across the vision like tape. The play button is pressed on a dictaphone so that it plays a speech about overpopulation. It is then rewound and recorded over with a joke about a truck driver.
24.2.10
Delta of Gemini
She breathe, in & out for total blood brain circulation. Possibility of 'Big 3' failure (if any); yes. And the fusing of body clefts.
21.2.10
Obama is gurning
Home made bongs, IEDs, fear of water, low thunderclouds, decagons surgically implanted into the faces of astronauts, pressing sensations inside the mouth, metaphoric violence and radiation.
Considering all of these thus then that there solid golden sun rises. The solid golden son rises. And rinses. The entire history of mankind building up to the thirty first of december in the year of our lord nineteen ninety nine in which the intersection of media frenzy and possible 'Y2K' bug materializes in the broken teeth of a dying woman, the cracked and splintered enamel giving the only true prophecy that mattered.
Considering all of these thus then that there solid golden sun rises. The solid golden son rises. And rinses. The entire history of mankind building up to the thirty first of december in the year of our lord nineteen ninety nine in which the intersection of media frenzy and possible 'Y2K' bug materializes in the broken teeth of a dying woman, the cracked and splintered enamel giving the only true prophecy that mattered.
14.2.10
Cauldron troubles and common problems
I will get a dog and name it after you and then I will kill that dog.
11.2.10
Ten thousand peoploids
Her oily way, her kaleidoscope brains.
- Infection
- Leukaemia
- Hereditary disorder
- Liver disease
- Hemophilia
- Anticoagulants
- Vitamin K deficiency
- Skull trauma
- Infection
- Leukaemia
- Hereditary disorder
- Liver disease
- Hemophilia
- Anticoagulants
- Vitamin K deficiency
- Skull trauma
6.2.10
Under a phosphene sun
Sneaking rum beneath his beard, heft the bit of grass into the sump. Chains rock inside dark canopies, the occasional sigh or animal grunt can be heard. Molten wax drips from candles put on any flat surface. Summer evening glow. Out from a tent rears the brown haired head, lightly peppered. He was wet. Uncapping a flask he drinks deeply, sniffing up the smells the hidden sun had given while shadows grow long and cold. “Charlie boy, charlie boy.” he mutters, eyes flicking around to soak it all in. He snapped his fingers and walked over to another tent, sliding between the canvas flaps and into a little den with a dirt floor. He sat by a lamp and unhooked a measuring device. It was a chromium probe, ten inches long with a small, blunt hook on the end. He carefully eyed up the thing in the centre, hidden beneath a pile of fox skins. The feet of a woman, soles up, trembled slightly with each laboured breath. He slowly moved across the dry soil, trying to breathe as gently as he could. Quiet. Two feet away now, he started to lift the probe upwards and pointing it as the hunched thing. The fur was pulled back quickly to reveal a huge hard boiled egg with legs and arms sticking out of it, sweating blood. It slowly turned, murmuring although Charles managed to push the metallic stick through it's back. Limbs flicking like swatted insect, pushed deeper into the soft, white body until he was up to his wrists. “I've seen you out, partying.” he said, now working back and forth to scrape through a tough shell inside it.
“What do you think.”
“I felt sick...” he whispered as he felt something give way and he went right up to his shoulder before withdrawing. He gently pulled out his arm to look at the red instrument. On the end was a buckle attached to a leather strap which he took in both hands, wrangling. Resting one of his feet by the wound, he gave a great heave and the egg thing turned inside out. Girl sat there with the belt hanging out of her mouth. “I still feel sick.” he said, sighing. She rested her head on her folded knee and blew a kiss. “Don't feel bad sailor, summer is here.”
He undressed and took her hand, walking away from the tents. The moon was big and fat, it wasn't even night. Over grass and dandelion leaves, they passed a copse where men and women lay, pouring big glasses of water for each other and watching the sky. Black beetles flew lazily in the air, snapped in the jaws of rabid bats that screamed and swooped above the couple's heads.
“Eggs are important, they are a part of nature just like you.”
He nodded then twiddled a bit of his beard. He was an egg once as well. “Let's be fat together.”
Twelve years later. He was thirty seven years old and didn't have as much hair. He threw a few flowers into a river and watched it for a while before setting off back into the clearing. It had changed now, the ground was scorched in odd places. Rolls of metal, broken glass, latex. Twelve years ago he had turned an egg inside out at the spot where a shopping bag with a dead animal rested. He flung it to one side and knelt, looking towards the East. Twinkling yellow lights burned on the motorways back, all the roads linking up to it like a tarmac net. He nudged some dirt with his finger, poking down. Up to his knuckle in mud, he rubbed at the shell of a baby egg. It hadn't had chance to grow properly. He withdrew his finger and punched the ground again and again until the egg cracked. Yolk spurted out before getting mixed with the grey soil and pebbles. He stared at it until it didn't look familiar, blinked a few times, then went on.
Fifty years later. He held the hand of a pregnant woman whilst eating an apple. They both looked out onto the silent garden, the stars and the moon and the planes and the town lights lit it up. Charles Kinitski owned a house. He turned to his daughter-in-law. “Anoushka, have you ever walked in the garden...in the night time?”
“No. Never crossed my mind.”
“Let me show you something.”
Charles Kinitski lead her across the neatly mowed grass to the spot where he had punched fifty years ago. He knelt down and pulled up a clod of grass before gently putting it onto Anoushka's bare foot. “You are lovely.” he said to her unborn baby then pushed his face into the dirt and quietly vomited. Anoushka looked down as he grabbed the grass in his hand, shaking a little, then relaxing his grip. The moon was full. Charles Kinitski's soul rose from his body, winked at the seven month old foetus before ascending up into the golden palace of everlasting ghosts. It stretched on for infinity.
“What do you think.”
“I felt sick...” he whispered as he felt something give way and he went right up to his shoulder before withdrawing. He gently pulled out his arm to look at the red instrument. On the end was a buckle attached to a leather strap which he took in both hands, wrangling. Resting one of his feet by the wound, he gave a great heave and the egg thing turned inside out. Girl sat there with the belt hanging out of her mouth. “I still feel sick.” he said, sighing. She rested her head on her folded knee and blew a kiss. “Don't feel bad sailor, summer is here.”
He undressed and took her hand, walking away from the tents. The moon was big and fat, it wasn't even night. Over grass and dandelion leaves, they passed a copse where men and women lay, pouring big glasses of water for each other and watching the sky. Black beetles flew lazily in the air, snapped in the jaws of rabid bats that screamed and swooped above the couple's heads.
“Eggs are important, they are a part of nature just like you.”
He nodded then twiddled a bit of his beard. He was an egg once as well. “Let's be fat together.”
Twelve years later. He was thirty seven years old and didn't have as much hair. He threw a few flowers into a river and watched it for a while before setting off back into the clearing. It had changed now, the ground was scorched in odd places. Rolls of metal, broken glass, latex. Twelve years ago he had turned an egg inside out at the spot where a shopping bag with a dead animal rested. He flung it to one side and knelt, looking towards the East. Twinkling yellow lights burned on the motorways back, all the roads linking up to it like a tarmac net. He nudged some dirt with his finger, poking down. Up to his knuckle in mud, he rubbed at the shell of a baby egg. It hadn't had chance to grow properly. He withdrew his finger and punched the ground again and again until the egg cracked. Yolk spurted out before getting mixed with the grey soil and pebbles. He stared at it until it didn't look familiar, blinked a few times, then went on.
Fifty years later. He held the hand of a pregnant woman whilst eating an apple. They both looked out onto the silent garden, the stars and the moon and the planes and the town lights lit it up. Charles Kinitski owned a house. He turned to his daughter-in-law. “Anoushka, have you ever walked in the garden...in the night time?”
“No. Never crossed my mind.”
“Let me show you something.”
Charles Kinitski lead her across the neatly mowed grass to the spot where he had punched fifty years ago. He knelt down and pulled up a clod of grass before gently putting it onto Anoushka's bare foot. “You are lovely.” he said to her unborn baby then pushed his face into the dirt and quietly vomited. Anoushka looked down as he grabbed the grass in his hand, shaking a little, then relaxing his grip. The moon was full. Charles Kinitski's soul rose from his body, winked at the seven month old foetus before ascending up into the golden palace of everlasting ghosts. It stretched on for infinity.
Metabody
Feedback loop of geometry affecting mind affecting geometry affecting mind affecting geometry. Slime.
The crumbling pelvis as the crucible of creation regarding the twin skull concept (horizontal). Also as a geographic overlay for finding interesting facts and figures such as which buildings relate to the skull or the roads to follow to follow your own nervous system. City planners poking through the bones with blue biros, searching for inspiration. The statue of liberty stripped bare, she always dies in films regarding the end of the world.
The crumbling pelvis as the crucible of creation regarding the twin skull concept (horizontal). Also as a geographic overlay for finding interesting facts and figures such as which buildings relate to the skull or the roads to follow to follow your own nervous system. City planners poking through the bones with blue biros, searching for inspiration. The statue of liberty stripped bare, she always dies in films regarding the end of the world.
1.2.10
Card number 6
Head-on collision and faces meeting above the folding bonnet after being launched from seats.
The force of drinking required to crash stationary objects into people. Post traumatic schizoshock of having the ghost appear under a desk or standing next to one in the urinal. Phantom bikes to mark accident spots have their wheels and seats stolen. Ghost rider motorcycle hero.
The force of drinking required to crash stationary objects into people. Post traumatic schizoshock of having the ghost appear under a desk or standing next to one in the urinal. Phantom bikes to mark accident spots have their wheels and seats stolen. Ghost rider motorcycle hero.
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