poetry, words, pictures, sounds
I was both cayce pollard and hollis henry in one. we were escorting our polish artist friend (voytek?) who did avant-garde geospatial augmented reality work (chombo?) to a startup incubator. we felt it was a long shot, but perhaps the incubator could fund the work?
we had to, of course, go to SF or something a lot like it (california i think had physically separated from the mainland) the incubator was in an absolutely massive stratosphere-scraper and one had to go up a mile of zig-zagging escalators to get there. back-dropping the escalators was a neverending wall of failed tech startup logos. no repeats. all bright and cheery and perfect but all representing a failed enterprise, a death. it didn't matter to the incubators: they had profited from them all in the short term and built and empire out of VC-enriched bones.
we reached the top. instead of having to wait hours to never been seen we are, to our great surprise, seen soon by a pair of smug casual-businesspeople: a woman and a man. we pitch the idea, hopping about on a floor-sweeping scale diagram of voychombo's vision: some kind of dreamscape imposed over the entire continental US. we broke some of the model and were going to talk until they showed us the door with a no thank you.
i'm looking out the window into the clouds as voychombo runs out of things to say. i don't want to see the look in the eyes of these noveau. but instead of refusal they are excited and pleased.
"we have too much money, anyway. we're sick of tech businesses. we'll write you a blank check. when can you start?"
the trip back down the escalators was a lot better than the trip up despite having to lug the scale model of cloudmerica in a downward mile.
Tue Apr 10 10:27:37 EDT 2012
zavatia paused. finally, something outside of bimsf bad distracted him from the diawaranfe and probable death of Bentley. a grand specimen of the yellow plague, fully 5 meters tall, dominated the gorizo. ahead of his path. it was he reckoned the second highest he'd ever seen.
zachatua inahibsd monuments of similar grandeur in the golden city but of course not sculpted from a nocius death like the body here. those of the golden city would have something to erect monuments too, after all: they have managed to survive the olgye and been thrive in this, most hostile of plabets, Venus 2.
Sun Apr 8 12:17:02 EDT 2012
"upon the yellow corpses do our towers rise and rise and rise above the aqyalor of new America. for our success we are indebted, indebted tobrhose pathetic sufferers of the pwlliw lpuage, the freezing pus that erects from even the most sloven wastrel a glowiwnfomument to superior city. to these glownf ranks we sibmitbour thanks : more beautiful than the sun through swollen amber are your svrifices to our beautiful we'll being. in your name we shut and close our canyon only to the deserving, the golden ppnes, we children of the saggrpn apocalypse."
Gerald listened patiently for the ends of the speech. he hadbhewrd it many times before. .. in both x and y axes. everyevel of 0Proxy 5 had he suffered rgroiuh the belted eulogy for crushed castes past. her lad listened, though z for any change that mightbjndicteban change in policy or thiyht at the high levels of Prkmixa 4 governance. Gerald was a journalist. he didn't use this label for himself, though: he oewferrd the term indroseer. it had a better ring to iit tjlhan the baggagebladdeb term from the decadent 21st. geeld had a line o some fix til. from the late 20th before things got tooxhec yay. among the religious tracts and sceilrurea he kept the elikwa of zadign, givson, Stephenson, Tucker, sick: those chriomed vuSionraorwa who forsaaw what he'd be gong through.
Sat Apr 7 14:38:53 EDT 2012
13:02 <@Cameron> cantor: This reminds me of them, and where they get a nokia
n9 or some meme i saw you get judged by how you go to a
killer having acces to internet, president n. Sarkosy want to
know the webserver is working, and i will just have a machine
with a big city i usually am against your thoughts.
Fri Mar 30 13:19:08 EDT 2012
mega rock shock blue tiny jello-naut no more lamps for william seward sewers teddynaught dreadfaught stephen colwhere colonel bruce hampton.
no more tiny tears for neon jesus. a severe lacking of nonsense for distraught mothers against drunk driving.
Thu Mar 29 09:29:13 EDT 2012
bently was alone. she looked at everything but her arm. she could not acseot or admit what was happening to her. plague? but she had been so cautious. carfuk and mindful of her surroundings. but there she could nit help hit look the yellow pus was wooing fork. her arms were sheen with fikth.
frantically shesceaoed and scalrarxhdx sending a yellow chrtistnas clod of dried plague onto the brown but barren ground beneath her. she could fake it no longer: she was a pariah. she could nit conjiue on the expedition and woiuukd probably die here among the brush. at least there was shad the close of tree s Bentley found shikeded her from the hedius dobke s:n's glowering high above. it seemed wise to sit: more dignified than keeping over from the wracked croucbing position. she was in. when they found her she would be a saibt, her fleshed a corridd yrklie, burned by the plague e secretion s.
Bentley sat and, still avoiding her saffron arms, looked for serial in the ground around her. the plague had sloughed off and one large droplet covered what most have been an an ant hill. eight legged were teapoed., suspensioned in death, perfectly preserved in Bentley's secretions.
she could not pity the eight legs. but she knew that she was gong to end up he sane: suffocated by her own pus, encased forever. or at least until some oaths c scavenger chipped her out on a thousand years, looking firvfiof. joke is on her. but that was the brilliance if the plague, was it nit? to let its victims Roy would be crude. an end to host and parasite both. but to preserve its corpse for future generations: the plague was practically an antiquarian in the mkng.
Bentley welcomed death.
Wed Mar 14 15:31:56 EDT 2012
it was a melancoich expedition. Zaxharia squinntrdd into the venusian doubles sun and winderddd where Bentley HD gone off to. it was the third time today his partner had left with a sense f secrecy and urgency and zacharua was no longer believing the overCitve bladder sxcue.
zacharia could feel the ache of the dying planet in his bones. even the mountains surrounding him and his party were decaying; in fact, it was impossible to distinguish the manmdae yarash mountains from those merely infected by the plague.
how long until his party succumbed to the same? he wondered. it was a miracle they'd gotten this far. he began to worry about Bentley. was he dashing off to hide the first signs of the plague? the increased sweat gland activity was always the first alarm. zacharia imagined beltey off in some bush pulling reams of junk mail from its dead branches and scouring off the off color swsat. zacahira winced and scanned the horizon once ago foe some sign of bekty.
nothing greeted him besides the same dead and gray landscape that always did. great columns I'd trsah, dunes of waste paper and consumer electronics. . two blidnibg suns in the northern sky. the faint and ill fated trail that sped them to their destination: the city of spires.
still no sign of belt. zachaira was becoming suspicious. and it was a brutal suspicion. what if bekty had a contact I. the City? a guide 5that he didn't tell the party about? what if he was going to take the ssevt the party carried and betray then in the City, that city if golden health and oetoectio?
zacharua was normally nd empthrtix person (for a venusian) but comforted himself with the thoguth of Bentley dying alone in some filth heap, grasping blindly at vacuum hosing and discarded deorderant dtubes. better for her story suffer an agonizing death then cheap ride this mission.
zacahtia's thoughts wandered, now. mission wasn't exactly the word he'd use. it suggested too much doreahought and planning. this expedition. was a final breath, the last sentence of a one act, the ultimate hope of a pathetic and doomed pilgramige.
fcuk it, thought zacahria. we can't waste mote time here. well die in our shoes and be nothing more than another discarded mini dish. Bentley can make it on her own if it really is just a adder infdctio ; they had drugs enough for that. but if she was cinspriing against the party, l zacharia could do was beat her ( and her probable axcompce ) to the City.
Mon Jan 30 12:28:34 EST 2012
this is a new site. it eschews most modern bits of the web. enjoy.
2011-10-29 7:43
I dreamt that A_______ and I went to a movie. it was after hours, but since we had friends who worked at the theatre they let us in. they couldn't run the projectors, but offered to let us watch some movie they had on a television at the front row of one of the theatres.
we settled in and sat through a long credit sequence with illegible, small white characters on black. it went on for a long time. all that was clear was that this was a david lynch adaptation of some children's cartoon; possibly carebears or my little pony.
the intro scene: gloomy music, a camera pointed at the ground dips low and back up while moving forward. The ground is green and brown and grey; the angle of the camera slowly lifts up to reveal rainbows and clouds in the distance.
the audience member sees the film through the eyes of different character, but also experiences emotion, taste, smell. we're introduced to a happy-go-lucky rainbow pony. she lives on a chicken farm. her parents are very powerful and she lives in a world of privilege and comfort.
an awful cretinous creature shambles up the hill to the farm. he is ashen and decaying, wearing tatters and covered in filth. crumpled, sad, broken. he is unlike anything else around--he has no rainbows, sunshine, or shooting stars.
the pony knows of this creature and has been told of its evil, so it taunts it and tries to shoo it away. it insists it's hungry and needs chickens. or eggs. the pony refuses and threatens to get her father. finally, she throws heavy things (rocks?) at the creature and he's knocked back down the hill and away from the farm.
the audience member is now seeing things from the point of view of the creature. he is overcome with hunger. he can feel himself dying. he knows his only chance is to get eggs from the farm. he starts back up the hill.
he reaches the halfway point and hears a commotion above. little eggs start rolling down the hill to him. ecstasy; jubilation. he frantically scrapes them up into his withered claws and stuffs them in his mouth.
instead of being crunchy normal eggs, they're soft and yielding, like gushers. the audience member can taste them, feel them in their mouth. both the eggs and the mouth shrink and grow and seem far from the body, but soon they pop and the distinct taste of blood fills the mouth.
the creature is completely satisfied and wanders blissfully away.
the audience member is back in the perspective of the pony. while the creature feasted, some kind of official starburst pegasus came to visit the pony's parents.
Some law had been broken; the farm would be taken by the state and the family rendered homeless. The final scene is the gut wrenching fear of the pony as she watches her father hand the land deed over to the official pegasus.
A_______ and I leave to find food.
2011-09-13 09:12
a gruesome local case which accident
had made dramatic;
no record existed.
I was beyond all coherent thought.
what had found him?
This was always the case of late.
And the organs never would work again.
A month, you say, without food?
My quest had come to something at last!
in some obscure Eastern temple,
I closed my eyes.
2011-08-28 23:06
we turned our eyes to the moon and the clouds stopped, the moon an ugly sun obscured. our eyes are dead, all seeing the dream that repeats and will one day replay not over green but gray when us and them are cavities, open to space. linked to me and back, my spine is drawn and we don't know yet gray from green or one from another. the blue blanket drawn lazily moves on: slipping, falling, crumpling from the bed.2011-07-13 11:25
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK A FIGHT WITH TWO WILDCATS No, he was all right!2011-05-16 23:23
Harry's son nodded. Three columns and two arches. GLORY MAY NOT LAST.2011-04-25 15:00
a besieged hot aqueduct died soon after the failed conquest of _the Celibate_ _sex will be slaughtered_ condemned Yet it is still to be unraveled.2011-04-04 10:39
"thick-skinned, liver, believers very social blesssssing", estranged mock crapshoot. Inevitably, concedes, Tinnitus.2011-04-02 17:39
frenetic fame
children.
pregnent. motioning
continues,
blurted
speechless.
Sluggishness, distored
production,
depressive effectiveness.
2011-03-31 22:10
when words will not do undermine my suffering with just a flower2011-03-27 18:30
a brown constellation among black night-hairs leads not to undiscovered lands but rather the same shit-smell & sweat-curls. I've come to expect.2011-03-23 08:37
Hamilton, Richard. Journal Fragment. c. 1912. Miskatonic University.
"I have stolen a few moments for reflection in my quarters at a countryside inn. I will take this chance to record some thoughts so as not to lose any detail of the day's events in a future recounting.
Today, the true nature of my curious benefactor was revealed. It is one month after entering into residence with Prof. Pope and, this evening, I could no longer suppress my interest in the sounds emanating once again from the underground levels of his mansion.
The sounds were simultaneously mechanical and animal in nature. I had questioned the servants numerous times, but they dismissed it as a mysterious quirk of the house's antiquated heating system.
'Steam and gears,' they'd say. 'Nothing more.' This explanation did not sit well with me. The sounds were the root of many sleepless nights and I soon took to pacing the hallways when their volume was at an apex.
It was during one of these nightly walks that I first noticed the ajar door of Prof. Pope's bedroom. Wondering if he, too, was disturbed by the sounds, I respectfully knocked on the door. Hearing no answer, I peeked inside. He was not there, and my subsequent exploration of the premises found him nowhere. His automobile, however, was firmly situated on the grounds and there were no signs of his departure.
Again and again I noted this correlation: on nights when the sounds could be heard throughout the mansion, Prof. Pope was nowhere to be found. I became determined to uncover the source of these nightly terrors and, tonight, finally mustered the courage to explore the Professor's study in the dead of night.
I discovered nothing unusual in Prof. Pope's papers and library–just books on electro-mechanical studies and drafts of academic publications. What I did notice was that, when I stood at his desk in front of his chair, the grating, shrill noises from below were slightly louder. I felt ridiculous doing it, but I put my head below the lip of his desk. There, I discovered with horror that the sounds seemed to be coming from directly below me.
I felt the floor with my fingers, seeking out seams or hinges. Indeed, I found an edge that I could only so slightly wedge my fingers under. Pulling upwards I was assaulted by the noise in a dimension hitherto unfelt as it poured forth from an opening in the floor. It sounded as though a dry, dead leaf was being dragged over broken glass in a stone basin, amplified one thousand fold. A low rumbling, which seemed to threaten the very foundations of the planet, resonated in my breast.
Somehow, I became aware of someone coming towards the study. A light was growing in the hallway outside the room. I knew that I would be promptly escorted away–or worse–for prying as I was, and in a panic I opened the panel the rest of the way to escape. A dark, grimy staircase awaited me, pitched in darkness. I plunged downwards, pulling the panel shut behind me, more terrified of the sounds enveloping me than I was of the pitch dark and smell of decay.
The sounds became deafening as I descended. I lost count of the steps as I walked and before long I could think of nothing but the noise. I felt as though I were but a vessel for the awful sound, suspended over a chasm of infinite depth. This image so distracted me I lost my footing, and tumbled the rest of the way down the stairs. Luckily, it wasn’t far, but I came crashing into a heavy wooden door at the foot of the steps.
In the room within which I came to rest, the noise was unbearable. I could pick out human screams, now, amongst the nightmarish racket I have already described. My eyes adjusted to the light and I could see the back of Prof. Pope, hunched over a large table. On it lay all manner of wires, machines, and devices, only the most basic of which I recognized from my studies. Beyond the table was a seething mass seeming to consist of nothing but jagged edges of light. It appeared to revolve in mid-air, and, when I looked about in panic, I realized it was surrounded in a semi-circle by human forms strapped onto tables. The poor souls trapped on the beds were writhing and screaming what sounded like glossolalia.
I could think of nothing now but ending the terrible sounds, which in my maddened state I could not disambiguate from the hideous mass in the center of the room. I picked up a heavy chair resting against the wall behind the professor–who was completely absorbed in his dials, knobs, and switches–and lobbed it with all my might at the heart of his bed of spidery wires.
Prof. Pope's equipment was torn apart and strewn across the floor. The seething, jagged orb began shaking violently. Before it dissipated completely, I could discern within the orb hundreds of iris-less eyes widening and staring with fury. They folded over themselves with a flash as the orb finally disappeared.
I did not wait to see the professor's reaction. I paused only long enough to retrieve a thick, lone manuscript from a table adjacent the workbench and then fled back up the stairs and out of the mansion, knocking past agitated servants.
This inn was the first establishment far enough away from the professor's mansion in which I felt safe. I made it there by luck after receiving a ride from some gracious folk headed towards the city. I could hardly believe what I read in Prof. Pope's manuscript, but the sights I had seen that evening compelled me to read on.
Apparently, his interest in telegraphy, electro-mechanical engineering, and radio had a singular purpose: to somehow invite an ancient being into our modern world. The professor refers to it in varying ways, but I have copied the most frequently used characters: Qb'ath'agu. It was unclear whether this name represented the dreadful noise that plagued Prof. Pope's mansion or the amorphous, jagged orb. Whichever, the effect such a being would have on the world around it was obvious: chaos, madness, and destruction.
As soon as I'm able to get through, I intend to alert the authorities to the professor's activities.
For now, I will try and rest."
2011-03-19 20:49
8am platform pink blossoms and urine smell better than a car.2011-03-18 08:44
The bodily heat falls very rapidly. "It's my lungs I'm worried about," Mary said. Gabriel, why did you ever set your heart on me? You had charge of the funeral arrangements. There was no tribute but their tears. You had charge of the funeral arrangements. [Sidenote: Result of the contest.] He did not want to let Renovales go. But the contest irritated the king. That husky young boy was her son. "Did they tell you, Mariano? She must stay at home and work for others."2011-03-16 11:33
Symertoerton LOS ANGELEyajima abilityists2011-03-15 13:50
dirty and screaming a metallic snake from hell marta train goes by2011-03-14 16:35
Although the cargo was taken out, it was after it had been in the water. more than one half months. Updated editions will replace the previous one- the old editions will be renamed. The soliders were ordered not to allow him either bed, food, or drink.2011-03-12 15:38