he was chewing the fiction, breaking it down into smaller pieces so he could swallow it. he’d choked on larger stories before and he hated it. gagging and retching as some metaphor came gushing out, hitting the floor, half-digested. at the time they’d recommended a diet of haiku – something lighter on the stomach, but he refused to compromise on what he ingested.
his skin patterned up as the data was displaced there, waiting for processing by the backbrain shunt he’d had wired in yesterday. he hadn’t tried the autopilot function yet but it was an attractive feature which allowed the mind to game while the body was directed on a command string through fourspace.
he touched her fingertips which were pointing upwards to signify readiness for outside input and he watched a cascade shiver of scattered poetry move through her hair. he hadn’t realised she’d had the medusa stranding worked in already. she’d had the stone glare added last week which allowed her to freeze information surfaces until she was ready to read them. she was still kind of hooked to sequential processing and hadn’t been won over to the idea of parallel processing; she said that having it analysed and filed independent of conscious process made her feel slightly out of body and that she didn’t find it pleasant. it’s true there were some small number of people who suffered dysmorphia because of the protocol and she hadn’t got rid of that fear yet.
he was lost in the data-shuffle of her. she smiled as if in dreamsleep. all around them worlds realigned themselves in the data repositories that were the communal group.

or net – cold man

high noon, stoned immaculate, jim morrison masturbation moment. he’s stood there with a shotgun aimed at a melon shouting jackson pollock’s name to the four corners of the room.
‘i was born under a ceiling decorated with picasso’s guernica, you understand?’
‘i was squatted out in the gutter of a slaughterhouse.’
‘same difference.’
‘we found our aesthetics early, eh?’
‘sure, sink to the bottom, rise to the top; all to do with the roughage.’
she is dressed in a dress that she fashioned from the cut up pages of time magazine; her most beautiful extremeties released from the caging of traditional clothing.
‘i sweat and have something to read later,’ shes says, distractedly, one finger engaged in the preliminary circling motions of a session of manual stimulation.
a camera shoots. polaroid instant and a dead image drops to the floor. the child with the safety scissors runs into the room, picks it up and cuts the face out.
‘not real; not reel,’ it cries, de-sexed in its innocence – free of the strictures of common society.
he puffs away on his joint while staring at a captain beefheart caricature of the great god Zappa.
‘there is an Ornette moment coming.’
‘how do you sense it?’
‘my antennae are twitching.’
‘i see them.’
‘take a kirlian.’
‘of course.’
a small black hole forms in the centre of the room which is blanketed in theoretical particles; they step through the breach in normal physics and enter a jazz moment. the universe begins.

know time

er, ya know, some things don’t make sense, like when matter cooled down and condensed into different forms did time do the same thing? ah mean, we’re always talking about time as if it were this big old uniform thing and yet there is this persistent idea of relativity, so uh, if it’s like not behaving the same way under different conditions, is it not possible that it’s like, uh, not the same thing?
cool hours sipped at in afternoon seclusion with smooth tableau of womanskin beneath fingertips and he is singing a subtle melody as restless fingers trouble his flies and extract his throbbing penis.
hot stale hours of airconditioned failure hell crowd out the next day and he sticks to his shirt as prayers for a cool breeze escape his lips and die.
next day is consideration of the trap – and the taffy minutes stretch and distend out of recognisable shape as he remembers that soft cool skin and an afternoon of energetic fucking where reckoning of time mattered not.
a fly is sat in his tear-duct drinking. a red river whose wellspring is his crushed forehead explores the contours of his cheekbone. it was a lunchtime get away; a planned exit from office boredom: it had ended in automobile punctuation. time is confused and moves around at speed for certain durations and then slows down as mortality presses in and around the smashed shape of his outline.
how does time react? is different time gathering here? he feels like an experiment. he ceases to feel. no time.

scream in

the yawning horror comes in the babydream dawn where breasts extrude human filth and the monsters grow fat on the codified obscenities of farmed abortions.
she screams but she is alone in a room decorated with meat, painted with human fat. gravewax tallows, hands of glory lit and burning. all these atrocity bodies are the given flesh of the unspoken yesterday as it crawls its way out of shallow graves to claim the innocence of today. thin veneer, blistering paintwork, it all goes down under slash and burn farming methods.
joy division choirs; new order orchestras. come and get your tattoos and drum out the underpinning rhythm of deathcamp century. there are prayers of denial here in the holocaust antechamber. devils in the green room with fake grails and corrupted peace and the stink of all of that fakery masquerading as concern.
crossroads, cross swords, and burning crosses, as the grand dragon pulls itself up through mountains of faeces sculpted into the visage of every single face that every masked an emptiness claiming to be a big idea.
there are photographers lined up and they are taking pictures for the rubbernecker children of spectacle attention spans. it suppurates, it bursts, and we all go down screaming.


ah, my headfuzz sputters. packed in the matter of self. innards spooling out tickertape loose to bundle and wrap around crap-full skull of empty. we stutter to break the hold of syntax, semiotics and grammar.

there is a tapeworm in the dictionary recording every word that we look up so it may construct arguments from the ghosts of our stupidity. cupidity – oh, arrow love, and point the way as the neon fractures in spitting sparks of bulbs dropped in water to kill the wet amphibian dream drying out in death.

i kind of sort of maybe understand that something i thought i had a handle on only opens from the inside out.

there are butterflies zipping themselves up in suitcase cocoons to unpack their caterpillar dreams into eternal postulates of youth forever after captured. all the vampires held in amber and strung along the ribbon spines which click in the breeze of hookah smoke at the lewis carroll beatification talks.

i am asking someone who once seemed to know something but now professes to know nothing what exactly is the difference between denial of the non-specific and admission of the general? is there not a cancelling out of the significance in the no-man’s land of no definition?

we set off fireworks and in the condensing moment of a single bang which hearkens to the big bang we see a possible fourth dimensional rift open and espy a way into the data-strewn algorithm that is babel.

in the beginning was one big long primal scream that when downloaded and unzipped proved to be merely a dirty joke passed between demigods in the back of the class.

you are tuning out my headfuzz. picking up on some loose harmony and tightening it until the ripe skull bursts and coconut milk or seminal flood erupts outwards, lands, pools and becomes the ivory tusks of ganesh, destroyer of obstacles. this is the key.