Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Electromagnetic Induction Blues

Episode Seven

Under The Wire ~ Artist Unknown

“Good Morning Adam” Pinky’s smile exudes casual bonhomie.
“Moed-morming Mifter Bewayer” Atom sits and watches as the technicians attach stick-back electrodes to various strategic parts of his little aching body.
“Don’t be alarmed Adam,” says Pinky through his smile, “the wiring is merely for monitoring and research purposes”
“Glad to see you haven’t lost that delightful sense of humour young man” like butter off a hot knife Pinky’s smile slides off his face to be replaced by a new line of enquiry.
“Now, for the monitors, please state your name.”
“Erm, Aphom”
“For the record,” Pinky addresses the air above Atom’s head, “Mr Earham is currently suffering some temporary speech impairment brought about by executive action carried out by the local constabulary.” He clears his throat, “In view of this, and until such time as his facilities have been rebooted to the required baseline, we shall proceed with the written portion of the induction.”

Friday, July 11, 2014

Cross-stitched Navel Attaché

I live a life one step removed
Behind that frosted pane
Where shadows clue
And ghosts remain
But never answer calls
Number withheld

I scratch the parchment skin
From within the tightened drum
Parading paranoid days
An aggregated sum
Of the future’s empty promise
Black nails knuckled numb

I hear him droning on
In the room inside my head
Wearing a deeper groove
When what he should’ve said
Would paint a brighter view
The broader track un-tread

I look out wondering through
The side door framing daylight
Dust mote dancing wrong
Somehow put to right
Lacklustre summer sailing
A time waster's line-of-sight

For who am I to talk
About all I know is true
When I won't bend my will
Give the devil’s due
To kiss the open palm
Of the empty hand extended

Tuesday, June 10, 2014


It watched us pass
Our marching feet
Our civilisation
One black bird eye
Unafraid -
Said the crow
You’re only meat
That I haven’t eaten yet

Trees point skyward
Black-fingered fate
List the names of the fallen
Poise waiting for those
Whose time is yet

I grit my teeth
In the wind’s dark bite
On battlefield bleak
Unhopeful of a happy ending
A grin
A grimace
A glancing blow
The smile on a shark
On battlefield
Hope less
In the wind’s dark bite
I grit my teeth
And face away -
From the crow that says
You are only meat
And I haven’t eaten yet

Trees amputated
Black on orange coal glow
The ledgers of loss
Whose pages await
My blood to balance

I will grit my teeth
howl on the abyss’s dark bowl lip
And wolf my bite of hope
On battlefield
We are carrion -
Says the crow
You’re all just meat
That I haven’t eaten yet

Thursday, May 29, 2014

Naked Old Man

Episode Six

Comes a voice from elsewhere: “What they get you in here for?”
Atom feels no desire to open his eyes and since even his eyelashes hurt, he’s in no mood for chit-chat.
“I been here so long I forgotten my name” says the voice.
“Ahm Phired”
“In fact; I been here so long my fucking clothes have rottened away,” a wistful sigh, “all I gots left is this necktie.”
Atom groans in anguish; anguish surely being yet another variant of pain.
“I’ve seen you lot come and go; years I’ve been here. Sometimes they even forget to feed me for days.”

See Mad Scientist’s Notebook (Entry No 2.1)

Friday, May 23, 2014

De-constructed love triangle

Rain patterns the waterproof hood below which in shadow hangs a yellow visor also rain dotted.
He raises his head to check for a break in the clouds, briefly exposing grey stubbled chin to grey studded light before returning his eyes to the muddy track atop the dyke.
Lack of concentration could end him up in the river.
History is acutely aware of the Heart in his backpack, its beat echoes his own a split-second out-of-synch; the Guardian Shroud connecting him to the Heart ensures that it is exercised despite the absence of the body it was designed to serve.
The front wheel, already slick with claggy mud, slips sideways towards the edge of the dyke and History pushes down on the pedals to straighten his path.
He feels both hearts skip within their respective cages in response to this sudden lurch.
In the distant rain haze the walls of Golgotha Sestri lean dark against the curve of the river.
Hagan will be waiting there with her chest already open.
History manoeuvres an eroded pool of mud, sliding sideways again and clenching jaw. The drive-chain hisses unhappily through the mud collected in the hoop of the gear-changer as a barque slides silently, unnoticed alongside him on the river, sails grey as wolf spider, a bowman stands in silhouette on the bow.

Rain patterns the waterproof hood protecting the optics strapped to his crossbow. Yellow light outlines the figure sandwiched between the dyke and the grey-metal sky. While the barque runs smooth and silent below him, Sacroseti’s iron heel is planted square on the face of the day, confident as he is of his skills, it will nevertheless not do to falter in the shadow of direct orders from the Eye – he knows well enough to keep his mouth shut in the face of those expecting gift horses.

Rain spatters the patina on the rattling copper rooftop while in the room below yellow light washes through the translucent host that contains the waiting ghost of Hagan; dark hope clouding her thoughts. From her perch in the corner cage above the humming Psygeon she looks down on her prone body, chest splayed open and pinned with filigree threads of golden hair to the Psygeon’s spidery hands.
She knows that History will do his best to return her ransomed heart but her previous experience with the twisted logic routines employed by the Eye allow doubt to run its oleaginous hands over her hope and raise goose-bumps of her still remote skin.

Tales for an attention-deficit world