Friday, February 23, 2018

Graffiti Shellfish


His tag reads BAD1 in clear tall and narrow letters with just enough curve and curl on the 1's shaft and little shelter to make it possible to read it as a Y, with a result that, from a distance, it could be read as BABY. And then coming closer you'd realise that the D is unmistakably a D, so then it's BADY.
Bady Grundy has been dealt some shitty cards but being called Shady Bady all through primary school has left an indelible mark.
The Christmas choo-choo still decorates Wee Ben's grave even though February is fast approaching; it's fading green and red livery leave a dry clutching at the back of Bady's jaw, as if he's going to vomit - or shit himself - or both.
He shakes the can with practised ease and sprays the little train silver.


Tales for an attention deficit world

Monday, February 19, 2018

Friday, February 16, 2018

Bus Stop

Zdzisław Beksiński

Amphyll stands in the lee of the dune, not quite deep enough to shield him completely from the sand-wind that hisses against this visor adding microscopic scratches to the already microscopically scratched surface; scratches that will become more apparent with age.
The Carbon Absorption Towers that litter the city’s boundary glow and crackle as their Capacathodes gather negative energy in quantities sufficient to satisfy municipal needs.
Amphyll vapes the hashish he bought just an hour ago from the factory on Via Orologi, and he is gently entwined in the perfume; the taste of its mystery, green and ancient.
In three days they will know whether the seed has taken root; the Moebius Timer will kick the packet into the face of Admin’s security, (the coding of which was written by The CoOp itself) and all kinds of fluctuations will be inflicted on the norm.
Amphyll wonders if they will find it this time.
His peace is shattered by the roar of the Leviptron’s sub-atomic maw.
He takes a footpad and is whished up into the body of the vehicle, passengers eying him suspiciously; as passengers do.
The info-holo hangs “Gate 339 - Next Stop: Pharma’s Market”


Tales for an attention deficit world

Monday, February 12, 2018

The Other Window

The Bus ~ Paul Kirchner

When he looked through the window
For the thousandth time
He saw a black horse fighting for its life

In a barbed wire fence
Fatally tangled
The more it struggled
The more it was strangled

He turned away
There was nothing he could do
The other window
Had a nicer view
~ Wire The Other Window 1979

Friday, February 09, 2018

Ghosts in the Wood

Sunset (Medusa) ~ Eugène Berman 1945


Through mask and filter he inhales the scent of timber coming from where the geometricised tree meat is stacked behind razor security for utilisation by the construction machines, and his chest is constricted by an inexplicable band of loss; breathless and wordless as the cultural vacuum that created him.
Among the smell of ozone and burnt plastics, the metal-clad clatter of industry, he takes the final essence of a forest as a personal gift, and since there is no other human flesh within a three hundred-kilometre radius, we should perhaps forgive him this vanity.
But the presumed dead trees will survive some time more in spirit. Their drying sap will continue to perfume the air with their message:
we will sleep under the ashes
we will outlive your folly


Tales for an attention deficit world